


Lacuna

by johnandsherlocks



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind Fusion, Amnesia, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Roller Coaster, Eventual Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-05-14 10:35:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 40
Words: 138,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5740381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnandsherlocks/pseuds/johnandsherlocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has been dead for a year and a half. John has been dead for a year and a half as well, but still breathing. Looking for a solution to his recurring nightmares, both awake and asleep, John seems to find the solution, a quite permanent solution. </p><p>  <i>"My name is John Watson and I'm here to erase Sherlock Holmes."</i></p><p>Eternal Sunshine of The Spotless Mind AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is inspired on the movie Eternal Sunshine of The Spotless Mind, but it will take a completely different path from the movie, it's just set on the same universe and follows a similar logic. No need to have watched the movie, hopefully you'll understand it no matter what. 
> 
> Warning: English is not my first language, so you may find some typos or grammatical mistakes, those are entirely my fault and I'm very sorry.
> 
> This fic will be updated weekly. 
> 
> Thanks in advance to my friend [prettydamnsmart](http://archiveofourown.org/users/prettydamnsmart)for her help with proof-reading! :3

  
John woke up sweating and panting. He was used to having this kind of nightmares, had had them for almost two years, yet none of the other ones had seemed as real as this one.

They pretty much always started the same way: he walked into St. Bart's, Mike Stamford next to him, Sherlock asking Afghanistan or Iraq.

It always went downhill from there. This time they were running. Running and running and running. John could almost feel the thrill of the chase pumping through his veins, could almost hear Sherlock's voice encouraging him _John, run faster, we almost catch him!_ , could almost reach and touch him...

And then, just like that, he vanished. And John turned to look around him, but couldn't find him. Where had he gone? He kept running, running, running alone, maybe he'd catch him after all, a nagging feeling inside him telling him he wouldn't find what he was looking for.

He stopped abruptly at St. Bart's. He looked at the hospital as if he had never seen it before. He didn't know why he stopped there, he had forgotten why he was running in the first place. He felt his shoe getting wet. He looked down and realized he had been running with his bare feet. He looked down and realized he was stepping on something, but it was dark, so he couldn't quite see what it was.

But almost as fast as John turned to look down, the night turned into sunlight, well not much of a sunlight because it was raining, and there were lots of people around him and he looked at them all and couldn't understand why they looked so worried, why they were looking at what was below him...

He was stepping over blood. He could see it clearly now. The problem was not that, for God's sake, he was a doctor, he had seen far too much blood in his life. The problem was where the path of blood was leading up to.

He found Sherlock. He was stepping over Sherlock's blood and he couldn't breathe. He desperately reached down to touch his wrist, but as fast as he appeared he vanished. And John stood alone in the ground of St. Bart's, the blood beneath his feet as the only memory of the detective, the people had disappeared and now it was just him, looking up and seeing the rain falling and washing up the blood and he didn't dare to look down because he couldn't stand the fact Sherlock wouldn't be there now...

And that's when he woke up. He opened his eyes, breathing heavily, choking back a sob, but he couldn't calm himself, he simply couldn't. He closed his eyes again as he started weeping, taking deep breaths while memories invaded his mind once again.

This was unbearable. One more dream like this and he would end up killing himself.

*******

_"John!" He didn't reply. "John!"_

_He looked up, feeling a bit more than light-headed. "What?" He barely mumbled._

_"Stop drinking!"_

_"You're the one to talk."_

_Harry bent over, in order to look into her brother's eyes. She cupped John's face. "Look at me." He tried to fix his eyes on hers. "That's why I'm telling you. It won't work, it won't fix anything. You think it does but it only makes you more miserable."_

_"It drives him away."_

_Harry didn't have to ask who it was driving away. She looked down. John sat up._

_"I just want to drive him away."_

_"Would you please not bring him up? It's Christmas! Come on Johnny, maybe you can meet a nice girl or something."_

_"No. I just... I want to stay here." He said taking the bottle again._

_Harry took it from him. "Please don't drink anymore."_

_"I just... Please. I can't take it anymore." John pleaded, his voice sounding incredibly thin while Harry just stared at him feeling miserable and useless. What else could she do?_

_Next day John woke up with a hangover, which only made things worse. He was going to leave this evening and Harry was afraid he might do something stupid_ , _but she didn't know how to say it._

_She remembered a card she had been keeping for a long time, in case Clara and her divorced for real. She tossed it out from the drawer on the night table right next to her bed and brought it up to John. He needed it more than her. She placed it over the table, her brother looked at it curiously._

_"Lacuna? What's that?"_

*******

He held the little card in his hands, considering. Harry had explained to him what it did, and honestly, it pretty much seemed like the best solution he could come up with.

He poured himself a bit of whiskey and sat down, looking intently at the card. He had to make a choice fast. He definitely had. But this was too much. Too radical.

Maybe he should just follow his therapist's advice and write on his blog once again. He stared at the last post, from over a year ago: "He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him."

He went through the posts before that and after an hour of memories, he simply broke down. How could he ever write something that could compare to those text posts? He had lost Sherlock, and with him had gone all the adventures and the experiences and the laughter and the crimes and maybe he should go with him as well...

He needed to erase Sherlock Holmes from his memory.

He needed it before it was too late.

He grabbed his keys and left.

*******

"Did you call me, Dr. Hawthorne?"

"Yes, Melissa. About the man who just arrived, I think I'll proceed right now, I need you to cancel today's appointments."

"Is he that bad?"

"I'm afraid so." He said concerned.

"Alright then, I'll call the patients. What's his name?" She said, grabbing the application that was in her desk.

"John Watson."

She looked up. "John Watson?", she looked surprised. "Dr. John H. Watson?"

"I don't know, he just said his name is John Watson."

"Fine." She said writing down the name on the form. "Who's he trying to erase?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

Melissa's pencil slipped from her hand, while her mouth remained open in a big 'O'. Hawthorne looked at her frowning while she bent down to pick the pencil up.

"What?"

"He... No! He can't erase him!" She threw her hands in the air.

"I'm sorry, do you know the patient?" Hawthorne inquired seriously.

"I read his blog! But he hasn't updated in over a year. I thought he had gone traveling or something, you know, after the detective died."

"Who? Sherlock Holmes? Is that why he wants to erase him?"

"Yes! Don't you know who he is? Come on! Sherlock Holmes! He used to solve like every crime in the country and Dr. Watson wrote about it."

Dr. Hawthorne shrugged. "No. It doesn't ring a bell. Now come, we need to collect the mementos and start recording."

John was looking down when they entered to the room. Melissa recognized him from the picture on his blog and that man didn't look like the picture at all. He was skinnier, had huge bags under his eyes, looked pale... He turned to stare at them and she lifted her hand awkwardly. "Hello."

John nodded politely and Melissa came closer. "Dr. Watson, I'm a huge admirer of your blog, the stories you wrote were fantastic!"

John looked down again. "Yeah... Well. Things have changed."

"I'm sorry for your loss." She said lowly.

"It wasn't my loss." John said stubbornly because Sherlock was never his in the first place.

"Melissa, prepare Dr. Watson, I'll bring the instruments." Hawthorne said leaving them alone.

She started preparing John. "Do you have any mementos of him with you?"

He shook his head. "No. I... All of Sherlock's stuff are in the old flat and I can't stand to go in there right now. Too many memories."

She nodded sadly. "Well, what about the blog? That'll do!"

John shrugged. "Sure." He sat up as she started connecting wires on his head. "Can I um... Can I please ask you a favor?"

"Sure, Dr. Watson." She said excitedly.

"Once this is over, can you please delete the blog?"

"What?" She froze halfway through putting a wire.

"Please." John pleaded.

She shook her head. "No. Don't. Don't do it Dr. Watson! Your blog is incredible... You, you can't throw everything to the garbage!"

"Have you ever seen your best friend die in front of you?", John snapped sharply and took a deep breath to calm himself down. "Look, if I came here, it's because I don't want to have any remembrance of him anymore, and if I don't do this, I will never be free from his memory." He snapped.

She stood quiet. "I'm sorry. Yes. I'll... I'll delete the blog."

"Thank you."

"Well, Dr. Watson..." Hawthorne said walking in. "We'll do a little map of your brain, we'll tape your statement and tonight we'll go to your apartment and erase Sherlock Holmes from your mind while you sleep. What do you think?"

"Not much I can do anymore, is there?"

Hawthorne shook his head. "No, not really."

"Will I have any sequels?"

Hawthorne stood silent for a moment, then he replied seriously: "It's very rare, but there are some cases in which the patients experience other effects, such as insomnia and intense headache, but it almost never happens. Don't worry, lacunar amnesia is a very moderate form of amnesia and it won't cause much brain damage. Tomorrow you might awake with some headache, that's normal, although you won't remember why, but just take a pain killer and you'll be fine. Although you probably won't remember that."

That seemed to calm John enough. He nodded.

"Now go ahead, the tape is recording", he added, pressing the recording button.

John took a deep breath. "My name is John Watson and I'm here to erase Sherlock Holmes."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since the prologue was short, this update is coming sooner!, enjoy! x

Sherlock Holmes had been staying in Belgium for two months, tracing the last link he could find to Moriarty’s web. He had been working very hard all this time, chasing and capturing.

He really thought he would be done in Serbia. But he found the leaders in Belgium. And so, he gathered all the strength he could and forced himself to go.

He really hoped this would be it, because he was desperate to come back to London.

He had been collaborating with the Belgium police, and they had extended a huge operative to catch the last two people, and perhaps the hardest to get: Irene Adler and Sebastian Moran.

Sherlock hadn’t known Sebastian personally. By the time he was captured he was wearing a suite which seemed as expensive as Moriarty’s Westwood. He looked like a completely normal man, his expression was stoic, he was definitely younger than Jim and, as far as Sherlock could deduce, had suffered an addiction to drugs before meeting Moriarty.

Surprisingly enough, he couldn’t help but compare Moran and Moriarty to him and John, but shook the thought away. Because they were not the same. No. _We’re just alike you and_ _I_ , had said Moriarty before blowing his head off, and that phrase had stuck with Sherlock all this time. He kept telling himself it was a lie, it was another way for Jim to get inside his head. But a part of him always asked but _what if_?

Moran looked at Sherlock with a smug smile on his face. He didn’t look surprised at all. Actually, he kind of looked as if he was enjoying it, as if he was telling the sleuth it had taken him too long to find him. What could mean that smile? Well, he would worry about it later.

His main concern at the moment was how he would react when he’d see Irene Adler again. Or how would she react. He hadn’t seen her in a long time, about two years and a half, and didn’t bother to find out more about her. Yet there was always something, _something_ he couldn’t really understand that made him care (is care even the word for that?) about her.

_Sentiment._

No, it wasn’t sentiment, he told himself. Sentiment doesn’t feel like that. It’s more like _empathy_? Well, that sounds a bit more like him anyway.

She was being carried by the police. She looked as good as always, as if time hadn’t had passed. Her eyes met Sherlock and she smiled and winked an eye at him. He couldn’t return the smile, he just stared at her. As she entered to the police car, she just said: “Good to see you again, Mr. Holmes.”

“Ms. Adler.” Was all Sherlock could say.

After hearing the police’s investigation and how much they appreciated his help and another endless banter he was too busy ignoring, he found himself alone, on the small suite he had rented in Brussels.

He took out his phone and sent a message to his brother, the only person who had his actual number.

_Done -SH._

The response came almost immediately.

_Anthea just informed me. Ms. Adler  and Mr. Moran will get life prison._

_Good -SH._

_Where are you_ parting _to now?_

_I’m coming back to London, of course -SH._

_Not sure if that’s a good idea._

Mycroft _, just put me back in London -SH._

_Are you sure? Fine, then. Two days at most._

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He had missed his city badly. Now he was finally coming back to London, It seemed like ages ago.

He smiled and packed up his bag.

*******

"Tell me about your relationship." Hawthorne sat on the chair, checking the monitors, Melissa by her side gazing curiously at John.

John hesitated for a moment. "No. No, there was no such thing as a relationship. I mean, not really. He was just my friend." He shrugged, feeling like a big-ass liar. Sure, just his friend. If Sherlock would have been just his friend, he certainly wouldn't be sitting in that place with those wires on his head.

Hawthorne raised his eyebrows, looking startled. "Well, it's the first time a patient comes to erase his _friend_. Tell me about your friend, then."

John had absolutely no idea where to start. How was he supposed to talk about Sherlock Holmes? It had been so long... "Um... I met Sherlock on January 27th, 2010. I had gotten back from Afghanistan and was looking for a flat and a friend of mine introduced us. It was a little crazy actually, the next day I was already moving in and he was a bit of a madman and that was what captivated me the most about him: that he was different from everybody else I've ever met..."

"Dr. Watson? Why don't we start from the end, so we can identify the root of the problem in your brain?"

John took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. "Sure." He whispered. "He... He's dead. He killed himself. Didn't say much. Just... We talked one last time and he said it had all been a lie. His last words were _'Goodbye John'_ and then he fell off the rooftop... in front of my eyes. And I couldn't do anything, I couldn't save him, I couldn't tell him I believed in him. I saw him bleeding, I reached to feel his pulse and I couldn't find it, I couldn't and then he was gone and I was talking to his grave and I never really got to say goodbye.

"Before that-" John sighed, his voice quivering. "We... We had a sort of fight, I... I told him he was a _machine_." His voice croaked, and his breathing became slower, as he tried to calm himself once again. "And he truly believed that, but he didn't know he was the most human... Human being that I had ever known and he made me so happy and he was my best friend and I would have gone with him. I wouldn't have thought about it." In that second, he couldn't hold it anymore and a tear escaped through his eyes.

"If I knew-" He waved his hand in the air "-this would have been my life without him, I just I would have died off that rooftop too." He shook his head. "I'm sorry. I can't keep doing this." He took another deep breath, closing his eyes. "I just... he was a good man." He seemed to gain some strength again. “He… he was important for me. Is. Always will. I really- I really cared about him. He was the best that could have ever happened to me. And I never told him any of it…”

Hawthorne nodded while checking the lines on the screen. “Good. We’re getting some activity on your brain. Did you bring any mementos?”

John tried to calm himself and shook his head. “Sorry. I can’t stand going back to our flat.”

Melissa took out her phone and typed. “That’s not a problem. Here’s the blog.”

Hawthorne took the phone and glanced quickly at it before passing it to John, who just stared at it, feeling like he couldn’t produce any sound out of it. “No. No need to explain it. Just read them. Your brain will work from there.”

John nodded and stared at the last post, feeling his throat tightening. _He was my best friend and I’ll always believe in him._ Oh, so many things he wanted to say, but never could. Starting by the fact he actually never told Sherlock he was his best friend. But that was kind of obvious, wasn’t it? No. It wasn’t. Sherlock died alone. Because alone was what he had. That was the last thing he told John before climbing up the rooftop. How could he not know? How could he be unaware of how important he was for John? Of how much he meant to him?

He wished Sherlock could know.

Too late now.

“Dr. Watson, are you with us?” Hawthorne examined John carefully, his eyes fixed on John’s unresponsive face.

John blinked. Hawthorne had asked him something. No idea what it was. He merely nodded.

Hawthorne smiled back. “Alright then, tell us about your blog.”

John cleared his throat, tossing the phone back to Melissa. He sat straight. “My therapist asked me to create a blog, but I had nothing the write about, nothing ever happened to me. I started writing in the blog after our first case together-” He smiled. “He was just...incredible and I wanted the world to know how smart this man was, how much my life had changed in a second. Suddenly, we became kind of popular. We even had tabloid nicknames and-” He chuckled at the memory. “Deerstalker hats. God, I loved writing on that blog.”  
  
“Why haven’t you written again?” Melissa asked out of curiosity.

John looked at her with a frown. “Because I have nothing to write about. Nothing ever happens to me, not anymore. Not since he fell.”

Hawthorne stood up, clearly feeling a bit uncomfortable, not knowing what to do now. “Fine. That’ll work. We keep all of our patient's records, just in case. It’s part of our politics.”

"Fine. I won't remember it exists anyway, will I?"

“No, you won't, we'll make sure of that. We’ll be at your house by 8 p.m, is that okay with you?”

John nodded. At least he wouldn’t have more nightmares tonight.

“Great, Dr. Watson. We’ll see you then. Do you have any other questions?”

John shook his head, until he remembered. “Oh, just one last request, please. Delete my blog.”

Hawthorne turned to look at Melissa, who merely nodded. “I’ll take care of that.”

John smiled. “Thank you.” He reached to grab a piece of paper and wrote down on it the passcode: 7437. “Just hit delete and that’s all.”

“Just hit delete and that’s all.” She repeated sadly.

*******

“How was the flight?” That was the closest Sherlock had to a greeting on his brother’s behalf.

“How was the cake?” Sherlock replied rising an eyebrow.

Mycroft stared at his brother seriously, then turned to walk inside his office. “Come. You need to get rid of that costume. I can’t be seen with a homeless man.”

Sherlock’s outfit was really terrible. He was wearing sweatpants and a loose t-shirt. He had to be undercover anyway. His hair had grown long and he had also grown a beard. He was almost unrecognizable.

He was exhausted. He didn’t know which force kept him from tumbling into the floor with the next step. Except he did. And honestly, it had been the same force which had kept him right throughout all this time since the fall.

He would see John again. Finally.

Sherlock was surprised at how much time he spent thinking about John while he was on this mission. When he wasn’t busy planning the next assault, he was focused on John Watson. He tried to remember every single detail about John. He occasionally opened the doctor’s blog and smiled widely, as the memories flooded his mind and suddenly it all felt right, as if all this effort was worth it. John Watson was worth everything.

The hardest part of visiting John’s blog regularly was to avoid writing a comment. There were so many things he wanted to say, he wanted to start by telling him he was alive. But that was… a bit not good. He also wanted to comment on John’s writing skills. But he stopped himself halfway.

He would finally be able to tell John all of those things. Face to face. Just the two of them against the rest of the world once more.

Sherlock honestly couldn’t wait. He couldn’t. He had waited long enough.

“There are plenty of cases going around London right now, little brother. I’m sure you’ll be entertained enough again.” Mycroft said passing an envelope to Sherlock.

Sherlock looked at it and replied almost automatically. “How’s John Watson?” That definitely wasn’t what he was planning on saying next, it sort of escaped from his mouth, unable to be stopped.

Mycroft looked startled at the question for a moment, but then his expression became as emotionless as always. “John Watson…”

“I’ll stop by 221B as soon as we finish here. Let him know I’m back.”

“He doesn’t live there anymore.”

What? Sherlock asked himself. Because hell, that was wrong. How could John not be living there anymore? That was their home. 221B was everything. He stared at Mycroft silently. Then swallowed, turned towards the other end of the room and replied a simple, small “Oh.”

Mycroft realized this had taken his brother by surprise. “Well, it makes sense. Why would he live there after all?”

Sherlock didn’t know how to reply to that. He didn’t have an answer. His mind filled him with a sudden need to see him again. A need he had left on a corner of his brain, forgotten. Now it was coming back, uncontrollable, stronger than ever. He had to see John Watson. “Where is he, then?”

Mycroft called Anthea and asked her to track all the recent information concerning John Watson. He then turned his attention back to his brother. “I’ll text you the details. The hairdresser just arrived. Please go back to your normal haircut, Sherlock. I can’t take you seriously when you look like that.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but nodded. He had to look good.

He was going to see his doctor, after all.

*******

“I’m coming!” John said rushing towards the door. The doorbell had been ringing for five minutes. He hadn’t heard it sound, he was too busy telling himself this was the right decision to make, and he knew it, but it was so hard. Every time he thought about the fact he was going to erase Sherlock Holmes off his memory forever he shuddered, and he just tossed the thought away.

It was the only solution.

A horrible solution, but it was either that or… No. He tossed that thought away as well. He wasn’t a coward.

Although this was an act of cowardly, wasn’t it? He was just running away from the problem. He thought he couldn’t run towards the problem anyway, the problem was gone. The problem had jumped off a roof. The problem had said goodbye and left him alone. The problem was no longer a problem. He wasn’t running away. Whatever it was, wasn’t there anymore. Whatever it was had stopped existing the moment John reached frantically for his wrist and found nothing.

This wasn’t cowardly. This was damage control.

This was moving on.

He opened the door. Hawthorne and Melissa walked in, carrying a lot of weird equipment. “I thought you were gone.”

“Sorry. I was already falling asleep.” John lied rubbing his nape and showing a silly smile.

“Alright, Dr. Watson. We’ll give you a pill which will put you into deep sleep. We’ll connect the wires just like we did earlier and since we’ve already traced the map of Sherlock Holmes in your brain, all we have to do is delete it. It’s quite a huge map, if I may say.”

Of cours _e it’s a huge map._ John thought. _My brain will get smaller once Sherlock is not on it anymore._

“And he’ll be gone forever?” John asked after a long moment of silence.

“I think we both know the answer to that, Dr. Watson. I told you since the moment we met. This is definite. If you’re having any doubts about it then I suggest you to…”

John shook his head almost violently. “No. I’m not backing down. I just, I wanted to make sure he’ll be gone for real.”

“Well, he’s already gone. Isn’t he?” Melissa said lowly, trying to calm John down.

John shrugged and fixed his eyes to the floor, as if it was going to fall if he stopped staring at it. “Yes. He’s gone. I’m just cutting all the links I had left of him.”

Hawthorne place a hand on John’s arm. “And that’s the best thing you can do. Seriously.”

“So tomorrow I just wake up as if the last four years of my life had been non-existent?” John asked, honestly feeling a little worried.

Hawthorne shook his head. “No. You’ll remember everything that has happened to you. Everything but him.”

 _Not sure if I want to remember the rest._ John thought bitterly. Except he didn’t want to remember. Sherlock was now only a corpse. Sherlock didn’t exist anymore, so he didn’t have to remember him.

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and pictured the detective’s smile on his mind. That tiny smile he only saved for John Watson when he was about to reveal how he deduced something. The only times it was genuine it was directed towards him. Suddenly he felt incredibly lucky, because he got to meet Sherlock Holmes, and hell, his life had changed completely. Sherlock had saved him in so many ways.

But he couldn’t save him anymore and John wasn’t strong enough to save himself, so Lacuna was saving him. And that was fine. It was all fine.

 _That’s_ the most ridiculous _thing I’ve ever done. – And you invaded Afghanistan._ He heard Sherlock’s voice once again in his head. That deep, captivating voice. He could almost hear his laughter, see his face, his gray/blue/green eyes… He kept that image in his mind. Probably the happiest memory of his life.

And he was erasing it.

He opened his eyes an exhaled a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He focused on Sherlock’s smile once more. He felt a deep pain growing and getting heavier, and heavier. He stood expressionless and turned to look at Hawthorne seriously. “I’m ready.”

Hawthorne nodded towards Melissa. “Melissa, please put Dr. Watson to sleep.”

*******

“Sir.” Anthea came in running towards Mycroft’s office.

Mycroft raised his gaze from the pile of papers laying on the desk. He stared intently on his assistant. “Yes?”

“We’ve checked on the CCTV all the records on John Watson made this week to trace him.”

“And?” Mycroft inquired.

“He entered this morning to a clinic.”

“A clinic? Is he healthy?” God, if something happened to John Watson, his brother would just lose it. Mycroft would never hear the end of it.

“Yes. He looked fine. And, the clinic’s name is Lacuna, not exactly a clinic for illness.”

The name sounded familiar to Mycroft, but he couldn’t quite figure out what it was. “Lacuna?”  
  
“Yes. We did our research. Well, apparently is a place which helps you forget someone. It just deletes it from the patient’s memory. Just like that.”

Mycroft didn’t have to ask who John Watson was trying to erase. It was pretty obvious. He closed his eyes and begged to find the answer he was expecting for. “Is it done?”

“Sir?”

“Has he deleted him?” Mycroft asked directly.

Anthea looked down and Mycroft knew. Shit.  “He was checked in today. I don’t think there’s anything left to do. The process is very fast and very effective. It’s permanent.”

Mycroft joined his fingertips and placed them just below his chin, apparently this was a gesture common in all the Holmes. He stood there thinking, his brother was next door excited like a kid in Disney World, counting the hours to find a man who wouldn’t recognize him anymore.

This was going to break Sherlock. This was going to shatter his little brother piece by piece.

“Sir?” Anthea broke the long moment of silence. “Should we tell your brother?”

Anthea was smart and intuitive as well. She knew exactly who John was trying to delete too.

Mycroft looked up to her and his gaze turned stoic once again. “No. He’ll find out by himself.”

*******

“So this man is sort of a celebrity?” Hawthorne asked curiously as they sat on the table standing in front of John’s bed. He looked around and his expression was seriously surprised because John’s flat looked gray, dim and lifeless. Nothing at all like he’d pictured it.

John had fallen asleep half an hour ago. The process was just beginning. Hawthorne had checked on vital signs, connected the wires and Melissa hit ‘enter’ a bit reluctantly. John didn’t say a single word before falling asleep. Hawthorne wished him luck and gave him the sleeping pill. Melissa took a last glance at John and could have sworn he was having second thoughts about this, but he didn't retreat. He looked bitter, yet he still managed to seem determined, and that was what determined her to press ‘enter’.

She looked around the flat. She definitely didn’t expect it to look so… boring either. She assumed that even after his best friend’s - _seriously? Just best friends?_ \- death he had continued living a life of adventures, crimes and murderers.

Apparently this wasn’t the case.

She shrugged. “He is not a celebrity. He just used to have a very popular blog in which he wrote cases he lived with Sherlock Holmes.”

“The blog he asked you to delete?”

“Yes.” She nodded “I don’t want to, I _loved_ reading his blog, his adventures were fantastic! His cases seemed a bit surreal, but I do believe they happened.”

“And the man he’s erasing killed himself.” Hawthorne stated the obvious.

She looked down and nodded. “Jumped off a roof. A bit more than a year ago. St. Bart’s hospital.”

Hawthorne looked startled for a moment. “He was the jumper of St. Bart’s? Wow. I did catch the news on that. Lot of coverage from the press for days.”

“Yes. He was quite an extraordinary person. Dr. Watson lived amazed with him. You can tell by his posts.”

“About that…” Hawthorne flipped a pen between his fingers. “They were just friends? Seriously?”

She shrugged. “That’s what Dr. Watson said but I don’t believe much of it. You’ve seen patients come and go. Not a single one who didn’t have a romantic involvement.”

“Well, not just that. When he told us about Holmes, even though he was trying to hold back the tears, his face lit up a bit. He certainly was very fond of that man.”

“He did die in front of him, you know? Dr. Watson tried to get his pulse but didn’t find any and nearly passed out. He was taken to St. Bart’s and he was shaking and sweating and kept saying _he’s my friend, please, no._ Or well, that’s what I heard.”

“You are quite the fan aren’t you?” Hawthorne raised an eyebrow at Melissa.

“You’d be too if you read the blog! I actually wrote Mr. Holmes once, by the time Mitchie got lost, remember? I claimed him if he could help me find my cat. He never replied though, I guess it makes sense, he had murders to take care of, but I had to give it a try, didn’t I?”

Hawthorne smiled. “I’m a bit curious about the blog, though.”

Melissa reached for her phone and opened John’s blog. She tossed it to Hawthorne. “Go ahead, read it before it’s too late. I want to delay deleting it as much as possible.”

He laughed and took it. She had scrolled down to the post on January 29th of 2010.

Hawthorne spent the next two hours staring fixedly at Melissa’s phone while she monitored John’s signs. When he reached the last post he gave the phone back to her and sighed.

She looked fixedly at him. “So, what do you think?”

Hawthorne said sitting up straight. "Well, these gentlemen were quite the pair, weren't they? An odd match, certainly, but seemed to work fantastically well together. That Holmes seemed like a proper genius, it's a shame he met that fate, but Dr. Watson certainly had to endure a very difficult loss. It's understandable, although I still have my doubts about the nature of their friendship. This is a wonderful blog, and I'm sorry but we have to delete it", Hawthorne remained quiet for a while but frowned, turning back to Melissa, "who on earth hasn't watched a Bond movie?"

Melissa laughed and looked back at Hawthorne, her face turning serious once again. “He gave me the biggest responsibility.”

“Well, those were his orders, so we have to delete his blog.”

Melissa opened the laptop she had carried with her and opened the blog on admin’s mode. She pressed the code 7437 (which she knew exactly what it meant but didn’t say a word about it), reached the bottom of the page and looked at Hawthorne, who nodded back at her, encouragingly.

She closed her eyes and hit _‘delete’_.

_The personal blog of Dr. John H. Watson has been deleted._


	3. Chapter 3

"So?" Sherlock said, walking out of the room next door. He was now full-on detective mode, with his suit on and clean shaven. Mycroft turned to look at him, eyebrows rising. "Where's John Watson?"

Mycroft shrugged. "Oh please. Do you think I have nothing better to do than keeping an eye on that man?" He said defensively.

Sherlock crossed the room. "I know you don't."

"I don't know where he is. Haven't seen him in what? More than a year perhaps?"

"That doesn't mean you are not observing him from afar. Do you think I don't know you, Mycroft?"

"Well, you clearly don't. Because I have not been keeping surveillance on him."

Sherlock turned to look at Mycroft seriously, his posture rigid. "What?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean what?"

"You're hiding something from me. What is it?"

Mycroft started shaking his head. "I don't know what you're talking about, little brother."

"Oh, I think you do. You know something about John Watson and you're hiding it from me. Am I wrong?"

"Yes. As usual, you are wrong, Sherlock." Mycroft said, leaning his back against the desk and crossing his arms.

"What are you not telling me?" Sherlock said seriously.

"Nothing..."

"Mycroft..." Sherlock said slowly and seriously.

"What?"

"Mycroft..." Sherlock repeated, his voice hiding a threat.

_Keep the hands steady, look directly into the eyes, don't let the voice quiver, stay serious and don't even raise an eyebrow or Sherlock will tell_ its _a lie._ "He...is seeing someone." Mycroft made up a quick excuse. He sounded quite convinced.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother, clearly trying to deduce something from him, but Mycroft knew better than that so the detective found nothing. "Oh," he said while the initial shock passed. He straightened his back. "So?"

"So, I thought I should warn you."

"Why?"

"You know, in case...you get _involved_."

Sherlock snorted. "Involved! I'm not involved. Nor planning to."

"Sure." Mycroft said, unconvinced.

"Well, then. Where is he?" Sherlock said, desperately trying to change the subject.

Mycroft shrugged. "I don't know."

"Oh, you're seriously telling me you haven't kept an eye on John Watson all this time?"

"Why would I? You weren't there anymore."

"Because I asked you to keep an eye on him!" Sherlock said, suddenly getting furious, because what if something happened to John Watson? He would never ever forgive himself nor Mycroft for it!

"Well, I did. Until he moved out of Baker Street. He moved on, so I thought you should too."

"Where did he move?"

"I don't know."

"Mycroft!"

"I don't know!" Mycroft exclaimed.

Sherlock stared at Mycroft defiantly for a long time, then he spoke up. "Fine, you know what? Don't tell me. I don't need your help. I'll find out by myself. Thank you very much." He said turning to leave.

"Sherlock..."

Sherlock turned back and looked at Mycroft, very upset. "What?" He snapped.

"He moved on." Mycroft said, trying to make his brother come to sense.

"What's that even supposed to mean?"

"Perhaps he doesn't want to see you again. He wants to keep on with his life."

"What life if I'm not in it?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"You think too much of yourself, little brother." Mycroft replied.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Goodbye, Mycroft." He opened the door to leave.

"Good luck, Sherlock." Mycroft said whole-heartedly. But Sherlock didn't need to know that.

Sherlock snorted. "I don't need luck."

"Oh, I think you do."

*******

John moaned. He had slept all night, which was unusual, though he couldn't remember why it was unusual. He didn't remember why he went to bed that early, last night was a blur, had he drank too much? Well, that would explain a lot, starting for the intense headache he was feeling.

He had slept deeply. Alcohol could explain that as well. Although it couldn't explain why he had so many dreams throughout the night. He went to one scenario to the other, over and over and over again. Alcohol, however could explain why he couldn't remember any of those dreams at all. He knew he had them, but he couldn't quite picture them.

So alcohol was the explanation.

He got up of bed and felt his head was going to explode, and his left hand was trembling uncontrollably. God, he needed a pill. Hadn't he learned what alcohol did to him? Why did he keep doing it then?

He went to his bathroom to take a shower. He took out a knitted sweater and grabbed his warmest pants. Winter was hitting hard on London this year. Although that wasn't really unusual.

That day it was a... God _what day is even today?_ John took his phone and stared at it. Sunday. Good, he didn't have to work today. If he had, he would call and say he was ill, his headache was killing him and his hand was trembling intensely today. He wouldn't have been of much use.

He turned on the shower and closed his eyes, he felt... Weird. He didn't usually drink enough to not remember what he had done, what had happened.

His headache only seemed to have gotten more intense. He sighed, took the keys and walked out of his flat, how come he was a bloody doctor and he didn't have a single pill for a headache?

  
*******

Sherlock didn't know where to start looking, so he went for the most logical option: if his brother couldn't tell him where the hell John Watson was, then Scotland Yard would.

He walked from Mycroft's bunker towards NSY, it wasn't a very long walk. It was early in the morning, and Sherlock walked over the streets, looking around him, he couldn't deny London looked more magical than ever under the dim light of the sun rising. Not that there was much sun actually, it was a very cold day and he could tell by the sky it was going to be a very rainy one. Not unusual in this city, though.

He took a deep breath and enjoyed his walk towards the building. He had missed London so much.

He had pictured so many times and in so many ways how he would show himself to John. He went around a hundred different scenarios and possibilities and thought he had covered all the possible options, after all he had a huge amount of free time during his exile, but he never, ever, not once, planned on how he would introduce himself to the rest of the people.

A nagging feeling of anxiety settled on his stomach, he was _excited_. Pathetic. But he was. Through his mind passed all the crimes he worked on with the police and he felt a pinch of nostalgia. He needed this again. He needed a case like the good old days.

But he couldn't solve the case by his own. Most of all, he needed his blogger.

And that was what brought him there.

He showed his badge. His brother had saved it for him, passed by security, straightened his coat, cleared his throat and entered Lestrade's office. It was just like he remembered it, time seemed to have frozen in that boring office. There was a box of donuts and a coffee laying on his desk but no trace of the DI. He frowned. Where the hell was everybody?

Sherlock went to the window and stared at it for a long time. Last time he had looked through it, he had found three red letters painted with graffiti on the windows: _IOU_. He swallowed at the memory, his mind taking him momentarily back to that moment, over a year ago.

He didn't want to look at the window, but once his eyes settled on it he realised it had been cleared, which was a huge relief, because he thought he wouldn't be able to face that sight again.

People were starting to enter to their offices, the deafening silence turned eventually into lazy chatters and the sound of paper works being moved or checked. He didn't look back, the door of Lestrade's office remained locked and his eyes were still fixed on the window panels in front of him.

"No, Donovan, that's not my-" Lestrade stopped abruptly as soon as he opened the door. Sherlock turned as he heard the DI's voice. He hadn't changed much, he was talking through his phone, had huge bags under his eyes and looked a bit skinnier than he would want to. Lestrade stood frozen, his hand on the doorknob, his eyes widened and not daring himself to blink.

"What exactly _is_ your division, Lestrade?" Sherlock said with far more sarcasm than he intended too.

Lestrade stared at the detective in front of him. He felt completely shocked, from head to toes, he was still frozen on the door, unable to move. "I'll call you back, Donovan." He said seriously, putting his phone down.

Lestrade remembered Sherlock had asked him something but, in the midst of the shock he had completely forgotten about it. Oh yes, Sherlock had asked him which was his division.

He couldn't believe what his eyes were seeing. Sherlock Holmes was standing in front of him, was alive, was perfectly healthy. How the hell was that even possible? Lestrade didn't have the slightest idea. He cleared his throat and almost shouted. "You idiot, you complete, utter idiot!"

"Hello to you, Lestrade."

"How?" Lestrade stood in there, his mouth still forming a huge 'O', still not believing what his eyes were telling him.

"Oh, no need to go into details right now, is there? That's so boring!" Sherlock said blowing a puff of air.

"So you're alive..." Lestrade said, looking down and shaking his head in disbelief. "...I- I'm glad you're back. Things haven't been the same around."

Sherlock felt a bit _moved_ by Lestrade's words, damn it moved? and nodded, expecting to tell him with his gestures he was glad to be back as well. "Alright, Jeff, back to work. Give me cases."

"It's Greg!" Lestrade said exasperated.

Sherlock snorted. "Whatever!"

Lestrade looked down again, not sure if he wanted to ask that question or not. "So, you're alive..." He hesitated.

"Stop repeating yourself, clearly I am."

"Have you told John about it?" He asked, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

Sherlock looked down as well and Lestrade could see a bit of insecurity on Sherlock's behalf. "...That's partly why I am here."

"Oh?" Lestrade said confused.

"He... he moved out of Baker Street, I've been told, although I still don't see why. You and him used to talk sometimes, maybe you had some idea where he could have moved to or something..."

Lestrade shook his head, suddenly taken a bit aback. Was Sherlock Holmes asking for his help? "Sherlock... We haven't talked to each other since you, well, died."

Sherlock frowned. "How come?"

Lestrade faced the detective again. "There wasn't much to talk about anymore. I brought him some cases a few days after, you know, but he said he didn't want to get involved in them anymore. He said it would be best if I left him on his own for a while, but I knew it was definite, he wanted to have nothing to link him back to you, he wanted to leave behind all of it, including us. So, I didn't insist.

"Last time we talked was a week after your funeral. I arrived to the flat and saw he was packing stuff and I frowned, but he said he just couldn't..." Greg hesitated for a moment, as if unsure he should be telling Sherlock any of these things. "bear it anymore, staying in there. 'Too many memories' was what he said, and I understood it back then, he seriously didn't want anything else to do with that life anymore. So I wished him well and I left, knowing it would be the last I'd see of him. Haven't seen him once ever since."

Sherlock stood still for a moment, trying to understand what Lestrade had told him, then he pushed his feelings aside and forced himself to act normal. "Oh, I thought you... you know, went for pints once in a while or something, chat up and laughed. Don't know why, always pictured it that way."

Lestrade smiled weakly. "Well, I don't blame him, I understand how he felt."

Sherlock looked down. "Guess I'll have to look for him myself." He said turning towards the door.

"Sherlock wait!" Lestrade said, rubbing his nape.

"Yes?" Sherlock said raising an eyebrow.

"I... Um... There are some cases in which you'd be helpful."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, trying to hide his excitement. "Of course there are." He turned to leave. "Send them to me at Baker Street. I'll take a look at them."

_Baker Street. Home._

"Thank you." Lestrade said, sounding a bit relieved.

*******

Sherlock hesitated in front of the door of 221B longer than he thought. The rain was starting to fall and got him out of his stupor. So many thoughts were crossing down his mind, so many experiences and memories and he realised he was smiling like an idiot. The rain forced him to enter.

He opened the door slowly, almost enjoying the creak it made, it sounded just so familiar. A small line of dust drew in the air, guiding directly to his living room, their living room.

The door of 221A was closed, so Mrs Hudson wasn't probably there. He went upstairs, the only noise around him was the sound the wooden stairs made every time he took a step.

It was as if time had never passed. Dust was everywhere, and the windows were closed which made the place look dismal and gray but it was his home and he wouldn't have it any other way. Their home, a voice in his mind said.

Of course, it had never been his, it was theirs.

He looked at Billy the skull and leaned towards it. "Hello, old friend." He passed his finger over Billy's scalp and saw his finger had traced a line over it. Mrs Hudson hadn't cleaned since he was gone, then. Dust was eloquent indeed, he thought feeling in awe at Mrs H.

He walked towards the kitchen, saw his old microscope, felt warned for a second because last time he had been there he had left a tongue on the freezer, he opened it but it was empty. His papers were still scattered all over the dining table, annotations about experiments, about cases... He peered over and found one of the notes John used to take about a case to write later on his blog. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and looked at it, feeling a bit nostalgic.

> _Max & Claudette. Got kidnapped on their own boarding place. British ambassador asked for Sherlock himself to solve it. Addlestone abandoned factory. They were being poisoned with mercury inside the candies. Max is on intensive care but Claudette is fine, Sherlock is about to go talk to her and..._

That was all it said, of course, Sherlock remembered what had happened then, and he didn't want to remember it. People doubted him.

John's last post on his blog said he'd always believe in him, but sometimes Sherlock doubted whether he really did. Why didn't he want to write this case on his blog, then?

He stared at the piece of paper and carefully put it back on the table, he smiled when he saw John's scribbles on the paper, they reminded him of so many adventures, so many cases, so many moments by John's side.

He had to find him.

He felt a sudden urge to go to John's bedroom, he had barely been there, it was John's private place and, contrary to what the blogger might think, he did know boundaries thank you very much, and respected them, so he never went into John's bedroom unless it was urgent or John gave him the permission to do so.

He was already climbing up the stairs, he stopped in front of the door with excitement, as if he was a twelve-year-old boy doing something forbidden and opened it.

He should have deduced it.

He should have deduced John had taken all his things with him, it was obvious, yet Sherlock hadn't seen it. He walked and stopped in the middle of the room, looking around the completely empty room and sighed. It used to feel like John's place, now it was almost unrecognisable.

He closed the door immediately, feeling sick and went down the stairs. Suddenly, the flat felt lifeless, boring, impersonal. John had taken far much more than his possessions with him, he had taken 221B's essence. And Sherlock had to get it back.

He sat on his chair and coughed a bit when thousands of dust particles filled the room, but it was his chair and felt so comfortable and perfect and, finally, he was back. But he stared in front of him and saw the particles of dust falling over the Union Jack pillow, placed over John's chair.

The chair which had been empty almost since Sherlock had fallen.

Sherlock got up almost immediately and walked out of the door again, into the cold London afternoon.

He tucked his hands into the pockets of his Belstaff and started walking towards Marylebone Road, desperately needing a cigarette.

*******

John realised it was already time to go looking for lunch, but he really didn't feel like it. His head was still killing him after taking two pills. What he really needed was a coffee, to leave the hangover behind.

He looked around and thought of how much he hated that flat. A bedroom, a living room and a tiny kitchen, and he felt trapped, trapped between the dark walls, the closed windows, the creaky bed, the empty space. It was all so... boring. The browning was still laying on his top drawer. It was reassuring to know it was there.

He was tired of looking at the same four walls, he felt sick of looking at them. He needed to get out, even though he hated the London weather right now, he had to do something before he died of boredom in his house.

He always called it house, he never called it home. It never felt like home. He'd been living here since he moved to London and still didn't see it as his home. Why? He had no idea. He just never pictured his home so lifeless.

He walked through the door, out of the building and into the cold afternoon. He started walking without knowing where he was going. He used to do that sometimes, a long time before. Before Afghanistan.

By the time John joined the army as a doctor and became Captain John Watson of Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers he thought he had achieved everything he had always wanted: he was doing what he liked, which was serving as a doctor and at the same time he always lived on the edge. There wasn't a single day in Afghanistan in which he didn't feel his life at risk, when he didn't feel the cutting edge of death, following him around everywhere. And he loved that.

Perhaps that was what he missed the most about the war. Perhaps that was the kind of danger which London didn't have. His boring, empty life in London.

He didn't miss Afghanistan, he missed the sense of adventure he used to have there, before the bullet hit his shoulder. Before the adrenaline turned into utter panic.

He closed his eyes fiercely. He felt his headache intensify, and his hand starting to tremble even more violently. John blamed it on the memory of the war. It had been a long time since he had thought about it, and there were so many scars unhealed that he avoided touching, avoided even approaching to, because John knew there would be sequels.

He stopped in front of a little coffee shop in Marylebone Road. He had no idea how long it had taken him to get there, because there was a fair distance from his tiny flat to the avenue. He entered, looking desperately for a cup of black coffee with no sugar, which he thought might help him with the severe headache.

*******

The first time Sherlock saw John Watson again, the vision was so overwhelming the detective had to stop for a second and take a deep breath, focusing all of his senses into the man standing across the street. Only in that precise instant Sherlock felt back at home, and did he miss that home.

John had changed. Not drastically, but enough to catch Sherlock's attention. First, his left hand was clenching and unclenching into fists, trying to control a tremor which only seemed to get bigger and bigger. Sherlock knew what that tremor meant. Second, some lines of expression had grown in his face, accentuated by the dark bags just beneath his eyes. Sherlock knew what that meant too.

But there was something Sherlock Holmes couldn't decode, something he couldn't find an explanation to, as much as he tried. There wasn't enough data to understand that, how was it even possible he didn't have enough data about John after having lived with him for more than two years?

He couldn't explain why John blinked, squishing his eyes shut and grimacing, as if he was in a terrible pain.

Sherlock had seen John having headaches, generally he was the one who caused them, but he had never, never, ever seen him doing those gestures when in pain.

_This is a different kind of pain._

And he was determined to find out what could possibly cause John Watson such an inexplicable and unknown pain.

He crossed the street out of impulse, almost as soon as John opened the door to enter the coffee shop. Black, no sugar. Sherlock thought, unable to suppress the fond smile which drew into his lips, he was able to see John's profile from the window of the shop.

John straightened his back and hid his left hand behind his back, avoiding eye contact with the customers on the shop. He went directly to the counter and smiled to the cashier, that kind of smile Sherlock recognised John did when flirting.

He was entering the coffee shop. Why the hell was he entering to the coffee shop? He cleared his throat in anticipation, pulled up his coat collar, avoided the looks of the customers and walked straight into the counter.

He had pictured it so many times, yet this wasn't none of them. He had prepared what he would say, what he would tell John: how he survived his death, the countries he visited while being away, the way he stopped a nuclear war from almost developing by deducing the colonel's life from taking a look at his shoes. He thought about the things he wouldn't say, about the facts he would keep just to himself, starting by Serbia.

But he had never prepared himself to see John Watson again, standing right next to him. John Watson, with his ugly sweaters and his charming smiles, with his psychosomatic limp and the tremor in his hand. He never pictured him because he thought it would never happen again.

Still, he was here. John was here. He was standing next to him.

His acute sense of smell activated as soon as he stopped in the counter. He would recognise that smell anywhere, _anywhere_. That combination of morning tea with the faint smell of cologne and the fruit smelled shampoo which expelled his hair and seemed to fill the environment. Yes, out of all things, Sherlock wasn't prepared to smell that delicate scent again.

He opened his mouth to speak. He found nothing but a tiny, uncertain and shaky whisper: "John..." was all he managed to say.


	4. Chapter 4

_Sherlock knew he was in trouble when he heard the noise of the helicopter above him, following his hurried steps, desperately looking for a way out of the trap. There wasn't._

_He was caught. There couldn't have been a way out, he knew it as soon as he saw the men approaching him._

_He was forcefully grabbed and put into a car. Sherlock looked desperately to get out of it, he had been warned, he knew, the_ serbians _would not have mercy, he had tried to be careful, he really had tried._

_He knew what was coming for him. The suspicions were confirmed as soon as he was brought into a bunker and a gun was pointed at him, forcing him to enter to that barely_ lit, _closed basement._

_He knew who would attack him, he recognised him from the wicked smile he threw at him as soon as he laid eyes on him. He was huge, and looked strong, and Sherlock didn't have a way out._

_He was chained to each side of the tiny room, and he soon felt his muscles wanting to give up as he slowly lost the feeling on his hands, reaching the point when he couldn't even move them even if he tried to._

_His chest was naked, and he felt a cold breeze breaking through his body, making him shudder._

_He would not reply, he would not give them what they wanted, and if that meant he'd have to die for not cooperating, well that was the price he had to pay for not revealing what he knew._

_Sherlock embraced himself._

_It seemed endless, a blow followed by another, a whip, a chain, something he couldn't even distinguish ripping the skin on his back. That would definitely leave a mark._

_That was the last of his problems._

_It felt unbearable, it seemed unbearable, it seemed endless, terrifying, an uncertainty he absolutely hated, not knowing what was coming up next. He wanted to give up, he really did._

_He closed his eyes and tried to retreat to his Mind Palace, but the pain was so intense it made it impossible for him to concentrate. He shut them tighter, hoping it would all go away. He used to do_ that, _when he was a kid, he frowned and closed his eyes tightly, hoping that things would be different._

_They never changed, but he tried it anyway._

_An image popped into his mind._

_A voice rumbled in his brain._

_They were sitting on a car, he had taken out an ashtray, and John was laughing, and Sherlock couldn't help but smile at the memory. He was being tortured and he was smiling. John's laughter muffled the Serbian shouts from his captor, and suddenly, it seemed strangely bearable. It seemed like it was worth_ it, _if he ever had the chance to listen to that laugh again._

_Someone walked into the room and grabbed a seat._

_Sherlock got himself a way out. He truly was a conductor of light._

_John's laughter echoed in his mind._

*******

It felt so good to say that name again and actually be standing in front of the person who responded to it. In Serbia, Sherlock had said it so many times, as some kind of last resource, as the only way to keep his mind awake, to stop himself from slipping into unconsciousness. He knew what would happen if he went unconscious.

John turned, and Sherlock could _see_ (see, not imagine), his face, looking at him closely, taking every detail of John Watson's face his mind palace had forgotten before, tossing the thought away and discarding it for not being relevant enough. Sherlock wouldn't make that mistake again. So he looked, kept looking and storing every blink of John's eyes, every crease and line his face had gained, his puffiness...

But the first thing he stored on his mind palace was John's absolute unawareness of the situation, for further study. The way his eyes remained cold, the way his face remained expressionless, the way he turned to look at Sherlock cautiously, looking insecure, the way his hand started trembling harder. But most of all, the way John Watson didn't recognise Sherlock Holmes. The way John Watson turned back to the counter to flirt with a woman without even caring.

Sherlock didn't store, however, the intense pain he felt in his own chest. _Irrelevant._

Perhaps it made sense. Didn't it? Or, perhaps Sherlock didn't speak loud enough, his voice had been a faint whisper. He covered the frown his face had done and tried it again, saying it more certainly, savouring the name as it came out of his mouth once more: "John."

John turned again. He opened his mouth, and Sherlock heard his voice after what seemed like a lifetime. Mind Palace John had a slightly different voice from real life John. "Excuse me?" John said, his face turning into a tiny frown.

"Sugar?" The woman behind the counter asked and John turned back, changing his frown for that silly little smile.

"No, thank you. Just the coffee. And your number."

The woman giggled, threw a dismissive hand and went to take the coffee pot, while grabbing a cup.

"John!" Sherlock said almost anxiously and John turned again, the silly smile turning into a frown. He didn't reply, just stared at Sherlock. The detective took this as a good sign, forced himself to breath deeply and said slowly: "Short version, not dead."

John stared at him for another moment, before speaking up again: "Yes, I can clearly see that. You're standing in front of me, so..." He giggled a bit, as if this was some kind of twisted joke.

It was Sherlock's turn to frown. "What?" He asked, honestly confused.

"Sorry, who are you?" John asked, his gaze turning serious.

"Here it is." The woman interrupted them, John turned to look at her and raised his eyebrows.

"Thank you" he said a bit less charmingly, but with that hateful smile on his face.

She smiled and placed a napkin right next to the cup. "And... here's my number. Just call me, whenever you feel like talking."

John's smile widened and Sherlock fought the urge to roll his eyes. Almost two years and three continents Watson hadn't changed a bit. "Of course I'll do." He winked at her and turned his attention back to Sherlock, raising an eyebrow inquiringly.

Sherlock remembered John had said something before the woman had arrived to distract them, what was it? The three words hit him like a truck: _Who are you?_ Was John even asking that? John would recognise Sherlock everywhere, just by looking at his scarf's colour or at the pattern his curls traced.

Sherlock thought for a moment, silently. He opened his mouth and then closed it. All he could some up with was a "Seriously?"

John's frown deepened. "Yeah, well. I have to go." He grabbed his cup with his left hand and almost immediately the tremor started and the cup shook so violently the coffee spilled everywhere, including John's body, burning him a bit. "Shit!" He murmured, looking down and placing the cup back on the counter, the woman had gotten lost inside the kitchen.

Sherlock took some napkins and bent to help John dry himself. "Let me help." He said as he crouched, cleaning John's leg.

John took a few steps back and looked at Sherlock questioningly. "I don't need your help!" The voice came roughly, hiding a trace of despair.

Sherlock stood up. "Sorry, it's just... the tremor, you should take a look at that." He said, pointing at John's left hand.

John looked at his hand and looked back at Sherlock, his expression turning into rage. "Who the hell do you think you are to tell me what to do and what not to do?" He said, raising his voice.

"Who the hell do I think I am?" Sherlock asked confused, his voice raising as well. "What is wrong with you, John?"

John took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "I have never seen you in my life!"

"What do you mean you have never seen me in your life?" Sherlock asked, feeling daunted.

John seemed at a loss of what to say, he did look like he had absolutely no idea who was standing in front of him, but how? how was that even possible? He forced himself to stay calm, sighed, closed his eyes and said once again, seeming to gain his composure. "John... It's me. Sherlock. I'm alive. I know it must be surprising to you, but I'm not dead and I'm here once again." He thought it was utterly stupid having to explain himself but if it helped John to stop being such an idiot he was going to do it.

"I don't know who you are, I'm sorry." John said, a bit apologetically.

"How? How can you possibly not know? John! It's me, Sherlock! Sherlock Holmes!" Sherlock said almost desperately, leaning closer to John, invading his personal space and pointing at himself with anxious hands.

John stepped back and looked scared. "You must be confusing me with someone else. Some other... John." He said widening his eyes.

"What?" Sherlock asked, profoundly confused.

John leaned a bit closer to Sherlock, and for a second, for a tiny little second, Sherlock could see in John's eyes a glimpse of recognition, a glimpse of the old John Watson, the one who had apparently vanished. The doctor stared at Sherlock's face, then said calmly. "You should stop consuming them, you know?"

Sherlock knitted his brows.

John pointed at Sherlock's nose. "They are destroying your nostrils. And clearly they are causing you hallucinations."

Sherlock bit his lip, staring at John's face. "Clearly." He mumbled.

John nodded, picked up his cup with his right hand, threw one last look at Sherlock, picked the napkin the woman had given him and then walked away, leaving a bemused and terrified sleuth behind. Then he got lost in the people, in the street, in London, just like that.

_Just like that?_ Sherlock asked himself.

*******

Greg wandered around the door of 221B for a while, he had passed by before, whenever there was some investigation going on nearby, he liked to stand in front of the door and imagine nothing had changed, that he would ring the bell, Mrs Hudson would answer and he would find Sherlock reading the newspaper while John drank his coffee. He had missed those glimpses he caught of their domestic life.

He had known Sherlock for five years before John appeared in his life. He had seen him at his best, he had seen him at his worst. He never thought Sherlock would be the kind to get used to that kind of life, so... Peaceful. Well, not exactly peaceful but stable, and he seemed happy. John Watson had done marvellous things in such a short period of time.

He hadn't seen Sherlock in drugs a single time after he met John. And _that_ was the biggest improvement.

Standing in front of the door, Greg wondered if Sherlock had already talked to John, perhaps he would see them again, sitting on their chairs, chatting while having tea. He really hoped he could see them again like that. He was curious to know John's reaction, for him if had been the biggest shock of his life. He couldn't even begin to imagine how John Watson would feel after seeing the detective alive.

He didn't see Sherlock die, John did. And Greg knew the sequels the detective's (fake) suicide had caused on the doctor.

He rang the bell. No one answered.

It wasn't weird, not really. Whenever Mrs Hudson wasn't home, nor Sherlock nor John would answer the door, probably Sherlock was upstairs yelling at the doorbell to shut up.

He gave it another try, just in case.

He heard someone rushing down the stairs, and a second later the detective opened, his eyes lighting with hope, a hope that vanished as soon as he saw Greg in front of him. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, it's you."

"It's good to see you too, thank you." Sherlock walked in and didn't close the door on his face, which Greg took as a hint to walk in behind him. "Were you expecting someone?" Greg said, taking a look around the flat. It had been so much since he last walked in that door and he thought he never would again.

Sherlock's back tensed and his fists clenched and unclenched almost imperceptibly. Greg recognised that movement, he had seen it on John Watson sometimes.

He had never seen it on Sherlock Holmes.

When Sherlock spoke again, his voice came rough and sharp. "No," was all he said.

"So... You've talked to John?" Greg asked a bit too straightforward. He realised he probably shouldn't have asked, when he saw the way Sherlock stopped abruptly at the end of the stairs and cleared his throat.

After a moment of hesitation, the detective kept walking silently, sitting on his chair. His eyes flickered almost instantly towards the chair standing in front of him, but Greg knew it wasn't an invitation to sit there, it was as if Sherlock was having some kind of memory.

Greg grabbed the chair the clients used to sit in and looked down at the folder he was grabbing between his hands. Sherlock sighed and looked at Greg again, his expression stoic and devoid of all emotion. The detective raised an eyebrow. "Brought me the cases?"

Greg nodded, giving the folder to Sherlock.

Sherlock took it, opened it and realised it was way too big. He widened his eyes and raised his eyebrows, turning to look at the DI. "What would have you done if I had really died?"

Greg shrugged, feeling embarrassed.

Sherlock took a look at some of the cases, murders, missing people... the usual. He kept his eyes fixed on the folder, silently. Greg took this as a way of implying his presence was no longer needed.

He nodded at Sherlock, even though he knew the detective was so immersed on the folder he probably hadn't even caught the gesture. He stood up and moved towards the door. When he was about to leave the flat, a tiny voice stopped him. "He didn't recognise me."

Greg turned, frowning. He asked himself if he had imagined that or if Sherlock had in fact said it. The detective still had his eyes on the folder, flipping the pages.

"Excuse me?" Greg leaned closer, hoping Sherlock would reply again.

"I found him and tried to talk to him but he didn't recognize me." His eyes were still completely focused on the cases, as if the world's fate depended on it.

Greg sat on the chair again, trying to understand what the sleuth had just told him. He was pretty sure the 'he' Sherlock referred to was John, but how the hell was it possible John wouldn't recognise Sherlock? "John?" He asked thoughtlessly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes but nodded. "It was as if he had never seen me before. He asked me who I was." Behind the detective's apparent composure hid a hint of despair, of bitterness and sadness. It was the first time he opened to Greg.

"Perhaps..." Greg tried really hard to find the right words. "I- I remember a while ago, we had a case of PTSD in which Molly assisted us. You had been long gone and John wasn't helping us anymore. She- she said that, even though it wasn't very common, there could be some cases of PTSD in which the mind blocked a memory completely, in order to avoid any further shock or a relapse. Some kind of post-traumatic amnesia." He held the hope this would soothe Sherlock a bit.

Sherlock stood still, thoughtful. He remained looking down and in the meanwhile the DI couldn't help but wonder what was the reason behind John's unawareness.

Finally, the detective looked up, his face expressionless and his voice sharp. "That'd be all, detective inspector."

This caught Greg by surprise, but he stood up immediately and aimed for the door, but turned back, shutting his eyes closed. "I lied."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow inquiringly.

"I do know where John lives. He gave me his address the day he moved in, he never invited me, he just said it was in case something happened." Sherlock frowned. "I- I didn't tell you because I knew that it would be too shocking for John to see you alive. I'm sorry."

Sherlock remained silent.

"I can give it to you now, if you feel like talking to him."

The detective stood up and threw a hand dismissively. "I don't want it."

"Maybe I'll stop by and pay him a visit. See how he's doing. What do you think?"

Sherlock walked towards his violin and picked it up, turning his back towards Lestrade. "Do as you please, Detective Inspector." He said coldly.

"Right." Greg nodded. "Well, I have to go. Good afternoon."

The detective started playing, ignoring completely the DI's adieu.

*******

John frowned as soon as he heard the knock on the door. A visit to his flat was unusual. He asked himself wether he had invited anyone to come over and had forgotten it, but he couldn't recall if he had.

His sister visited him often, perhaps more than she should. They always ended up fighting. Harriet had a very impulsive personality, she said what she wanted whenever she wanted, without caring about people's feelings. Not that John minded that, but her imprudence had caused more than a quarrel between them.

Well, that and her alcoholism. She always ended up promising she would quit drinking, but she never did. John grew tired of waiting for her to do it, Clara had grown tired too, but they stood by her side, hoping someday she would fulfil the prospect.

That was perhaps the reason John hated drinking so much. He wasn't much of a drinker because the thought of alcohol always reminded him of the constant struggle his sister found herself in. He had an enviable resistance to liquor, but he never tempted destiny, he didn't want to end up like his sister.

The only times John drank was when he wanted to forget about something, whenever he felt sad, depressed or haunted by memories.

That's why he found it so strange he was suffering from a hangover so extreme he couldn't even remember what he had drunk to end up in that state or what brought him to take the decision of getting so intoxicated.

He stood up and grimaced in pain as soon as he did, his right leg started aching intensely. He limped towards the door, begging he wouldn't find his sister behind it.

He opened it and couldn't hide the look of surprise on his face. "Greg!" He said with a smile.

Greg smiled at John, staring at him for longer than he should, John looked different. Skinnier, paler, shriveled. Then he remembered John had just said his name and frowned, confused. How the hell could John remember him and not remember Sherlock? There was something extremely odd about all of this. "Good evening, John. I was in the neighborhood and I decided to come over and see how you were."

John nodded and said automatically and thoughtlessly, as if it was some kind of over rehearsed answer. "I'm fine. Come in, I'll put the kettle on."

Greg entered to the flat, which was completely different from the one John used to share with Sherlock. He looked around and realized the living room was almost empty. It looked a bit gray and boring, no wallpapers on the walls, nor skulls or big stacks of files on the floor. This place didn't look like John Watson's home. This place didn't look like a home at all.

He sat on the sofa, thinking. His theory about some kind of PTSD seemed to make more sense now. John could have blocked everything which reminded him of Sherlock after the fall and after some time of assimilation he could come back to himself. But something was wrong, Greg could tell, but had no idea of what it was.

John came back a minute later, sitting in front of him. Greg considered if it was good or not bringing Sherlock up into the conversation.

"So..." he looked around. "How have you been?"

John nodded and smiled weakly. "Good, good. Working hard at the hospital."

"Surgeon?"

"No. Checking on patients at ER." He looked down at his trembling hand, and clenched his fist to hide it. He looked up again. "So what about the cases? Anything new?"

And that, _that_ was the wake up call which told Greg something was completely wrong. How the hell was it possible that John Watson remembered the cases but didn't remember the man who solved them? He stood silent for a moment frowning, and realized he hadn't replied yet. John eyed him curiously. "Not really." He replied absentmindedly.

John nodded again and looked down. An uncomfortable silence feel between them. Greg knew that leaving Sherlock aside, they didn't have much to talk about. This was turning far too awkward, so Greg did the only thing he could and spoke again. "...Just, some murders. Missing people, you know, the usual." He said as if he never had stopped talking.

John looked at him again and raised his eyebrow. "...Alright." He said after a moment. Then he frowned. "Are you okay? You seem a bit... uncomfortable."

Greg nodded and smiled reassuringly. "No, no." He said shaking his head. "It's just... We hadn't talked in a very long time."

John smiled weakly. "Yes, that's right. Over..." He looked up to the ceiling, thoughtfully. "A year was it?"

Greg stared at the doctor, who still looked completely unaware. "Yes, a year or two."

John smiled a bit. "Time flies, doesn't it?"

Greg could at least imply it a bit, see if John remembered something about Sherlock, a bit at least would do. "Do you remember the last case in which you helped us? I forgot..." He lied.

The doctor cheered up a bit. "Yes, it was the one of the...the British ambassador. His children had gone missing. You found them and asked me to check on them and the levels of mercury they had ingested."

The detective inspector stared at John, startled. John remembered perfectly what the case had been about, yet he had said it had been Greg who found them and not Sherlock. What the hell was going on with John?

"...Max and Claudette." John said, taking Greg out of his stupor.

"Excuse me?"

"The kid's names. They were named Max and Claudette."

Greg nodded, smiling forcedly. "Yes. I had forgotten their names."

John smiled a bit, feeling pleased with himself and his memory. If only he knew.

Greg dragged a deep breath before asking once again. "So, how's been your week?"

John seemed to have remembered something, because he stood up immediately. "Oh! Hold on a second, the tea! I'll be back in a minute."

He came back a moment later holding two cups. "Here." He said tossing the cup to Greg.

"Cheers." Greg said as he received it. He took a sip and placed it on the coffee table in front of him.

John drank a bit and said. "You were talking about... _my week_?" He said tossing his head to one side, a bit confused.

Greg nodded. "Yes. Trying a little chat." He said, trying to sound nonchalant.

John smiled. "Good. Yeah. Lots of work at the hospital, but in general it was a good week." John said, avoiding the night he got so drunk he couldn't even remember it and the crazy encounter he had earlier.

Greg still eyed him curiously. "Nothing extraordinary happened?"

John knitted his eyebrows together and took a sip of tea. "No, not really. Why?" He said after he drank.

Greg shook his head with a frown. "No, just in case. I'm a detective inspector so I must be attentive of any irregularities..."

"O...Okay." John said, confused of Greg's attitude.

They finished their cuppas in silence, and as soon as Greg took the last sip, he stood up. "Well, John, it was great seeing you again. I just wanted to see how you were."

John nodded. "Yeah, thank you. I'm fine." He repeated. Of course he was fine, of course he was.

"I have to keep working on the current case, so..." He made up an excuse to leave.

John looked down and rubbed his nape for a moment. "Need any help with that?" He asked gently.

Greg shook his head. "No. Don't worry, we're handling it."

John smiled. He couldn't deny he felt a bit disappointed. He missed those times in which his help was required by Scotland Yard, not only he felt useful once again but he found that kind of adrenaline he had only been able to find on the war field in Afghanistan.

Apparently the smile wasn't enough to conceal his disappointment, because Greg realised John actually _wanted_ to help the police once again. "But if you could give me your phone..." He amended, and John looked up, hopefully. "So I can reach you in case we need you."

John nodded. "Sure, sure." He wrote it on a piece of paper and handed it to Greg.

"Thanks, mate." Greg said, turning towards the door. "Well, I've got to go." He said awkwardly.

"Yeah, thanks for the visit."

He left John's flat even more confused than when he had rung the bell and entered.

*******

An accident had occurred nearby the hospital. Lots of injured people were being brought. John was incredibly busy but he loved it. As a hospital gurney was carried inside, John's phone started ringing. He took it out from his gown and looked at it quickly. It was from Greg.

"Sarah?" He said in a rush, turning to look towards the receptionist. "Mind taking the people for a second? I'll be right back." He said without waiting for Sarah's approval.

"Yes?" He said, picking up the phone. It had been over a week since Greg visited and he honestly expected he would be needed for a case once again.

"John? Yeah, hi. We um- we're doing an inspection. A drugs bust. The owner seems to have a wide variety of them, so we'd... like you to take a look and help us determine the origin or functionality of them." His voice sounded a bit off, a bit nervous.

John nodded excitedly. "Yeah sure! But I'm a bit busy at the moment, can you wait for about two hours?"

"Sure. We'll wait outside of the apartment. I'll meet you there."

"What's the address of the apartment?" John inquired.

Greg cleared his throat and hesitated for a moment before replying. "Baker Street. 221B Baker Street."

"I'll be there."


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock had his eyes closed and his hands below his chin when the bell rang. He opened them and frowned, he told, _forced_ himself not to rush to open the door, but by the time the bell rang again, he was already climbing down the stairs and hating himself for being so stupidly filled with hope.

Lestrade nodded at him as soon as he opened the door. Sherlock rolled his eyes and climbed up the stairs.

"We're here for a drug bust." Lestrade said as soon as he arrived to the flat.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"

A person was behind Greg, the DI moved and Sherlock's mouth fell open. John Watson was here. 221B. His home. _Their_ home. The sleuth's expression softened. "John." He said.

Greg took a step aside, hoping John would show a hint of recognition. John was looking around everywhere. He turned to look at Sherlock at the mention of the name and his eyes widened.

"I-I'll be looking in the bedroom. Now you stay here and make sure he doesn't go anywhere!" He said pointing at John, feeling a bit awkward, as the two men stared at each other.

John nodded as Greg left. He cleared his throat. Sherlock couldn't help but keep his eyes fixed on him, standing there, in the flat. It all seemed too surreal.

"Of course it had to be you..." John said stepping forward, shaking his head and smiling a bit.

"John, I-"

"Why don't you save us time and tell us where you've hidden them?" John asked, his posture rigid. _His soldier posture_ , Sherlock thought.

If Sherlock held any hope by now, it vanished completely when he heard John's words. That was something John Watson would probably tell him if he was absolutely angry at him, the thing was, the old John wouldn't say it with such coldness, avoiding his gaze. He bit his lip and looked down.

He couldn't reply. John was shifting from one feet to the other, uncomfortably. "Take a seat." Sherlock said trying to sound as cold as John. Two people could play the game.

"What?" John said, raising his eyebrow.

"Your leg is hurting. Take a seat."

"How?" John asked but shook his head. He looked down. "I'm fine." He said sharply.

"You really should-"

"I DON'T NEED A BLOODY SEAT!" John interrupted him, yelling.

Sherlock shrugged.

John closed his eyes and looked down, trying to ignore the increasing pain in his right leg and the tremor in his left hand. Damn it, if he kept like this, he'd have to go back to the cane.

"Please..." John looked up. "Take a seat or you won't be able to stand for much long."

John sighed. "Fine." He said with a nod. He looked around and, as Sherlock suspected, he sat on his - _his_ \- chair, patting the Union Jack pillow. Sherlock could feel the corner of his lips twitching up a bit. There was still a glimpse of the old John Watson at least.

Sherlock sat in his chair, just in front of John.

John clenched and unclenched his left hand into fists before looking up and tilting his head to the side, observing Sherlock.

Sherlock broke the silence. "Tea?" He said, moving towards the edge of the chair as if he was about to stand up.

John eyed him dubiously. He shook his head.

Sherlock sat back on the chair, looking elsewhere. It wasn't nice looking at John knowing John didn't remember him.

"So... aren't you going to resist to the drugs bust? that's a first!" John said, a bit defiantly.

Sherlock shook his head. "They'll find nothing."

"Hid them already?" John inquired.

"No. I'm clean."

John laughed a bit, unconvinced. Sherlock swallowed down the weird feeling he had. John was convinced he was an addict. What the hell was wrong?

An awkward silence fell between the two of them. Sherlock couldn't describe quite well what he was feeling. A part of him was excited, looking at John right where he belonged, another part was irrationally angry and wanted to shake him until he'd look into his eyes and recognize him again, and the other part, the one he didn't dare to admit he had, felt an acute and utter pain. A kind of pain he had never felt before, a kind of pain which only seemed to stab deeper and deeper with every second John spent at the flat still not knowing who Sherlock Holmes was.

Sherlock remembered it all, quite clearly. Every single memory pierced into his mind, everything they had gone through. So many things, so many moments, so many cases. How could John not remember? The sleuth hoped that through the silence wouldn't filter the endless begging he was doing at the moment, that John could get over that shock, that this apparent PTSD that was threatening to take him away would vanish, that he would go back to being who he was, that everything would go back to being how it used to be.

Greg waited for a couple minutes more before he left Sherlock's bedroom. When he came back to the living room and looked at John sitting on his chair he looked at Sherlock with a smile, raising his thumbs up. Sherlock dragged a deep breath and shook his head slightly, Greg's face falling.

John turned to look at him. "Found anything?" He asked.

Greg rubbed his nape and shook his head. "Nothing. I found nothing."

John turned to look back at Sherlock and eyed him cautiously. "I'd look again if I were you."  
  
Sherlock stood up in his fine suit and raised his chin, "I assure you, detective inspector..." The sleuth said throwing one last look at John, hoping he would sound more rational and logical to the doctor. Perhaps, _perhaps_ showing himself how he was would help John remember, he thought to himself. "That you won't find anything. I'm clean."

"Hang on," John said, fully turning to look at them. "Do you know each other?"

Sherlock put his hands on his back."I've worked with Lestrade in a few cases."

Greg nodded. "Yes, he helps us once in a while." Sherlock snorted. "...Occasionally." Greg corrected, looking at Sherlock.

"That's better." Sherlock said.

John frowned, looking confused, but said nothing about it whatsoever. He stood up and grimaced a bit, bringing his hand to his right leg, before stumbling and falling on the couch again.

Sherlock approached him, looking worried. "Are you okay?" He said, bending down, looking at John's eyes.

Greg looked down, feeling a bit uncomfortable, because the sight was utterly sad.

John rubbed his leg but nodded. "Yeah, yeah. I'm fine, it's just... My bloody leg." He said a bit angrily.

"Do you need anything?" Sherlock asked, unable to hide the concern from his eyes.

John stared at him, knitting his eyebrows together. He shook his head. "No, no."

"Let me help you stand up." Sherlock said reaching a hand.

John looked at it for a moment, hesitantly. He took it and grabbed it forcefully, in order to stand up. Once he was up, his hand unclasped from Sherlock's grip and he moved, limping a bit towards the door.

Sherlock clenched and unclenched the hand which had held John's hand a few seconds ago, hoping the warmth of John's touch wouldn't leave him.

Greg cleared his throat and both of them turned to look at him, as if they had forgotten he was on the room in the first place. Greg pointed at Sherlock. "Take this as a warning, Holmes. I'll come back unexpectedly, searching for drugs."

"You'll find nothing." Sherlock said seriously.

John nodded at him, still maintaining some cautious distance between them.

And just like that, both men left.

*******

"I sincerely expected you would call. It's been over two weeks, Sherlock!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at Mycroft's tone. Who did he think he was to scold him? "I. Was. Busy." He said sharply.

Mycroft frowned. "Then what brings you here today?"

They were at Mycroft's office underground. It had been Sherlock's last resource. He seriously didn't want to ask his brother but deep inside he knew he would hold the answer. He had kept an eye on John all this time, after all. He took a deep breath but just about he was to reply, Mycroft raised his eyebrows as if reading him and smiled slightly.

"How did your incursion into 'normal' life went? Did everybody receive you with a hug and a happy smile?" Mycroft said, unable to hide the disgust from his face.

"They reacted quite well, actually." Sherlock lied.

"Really?" Mycroft asked skeptically. He was silent for a moment and smiled once again. "Even John Watson?"

Sherlock froze right in place. So Mycroft did know what was wrong. "Tell me what happened to him." He asked seriously.

Mycroft frowned. "What happened to him?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, Mycroft. You know exactly what I mean. You kept an eye on him. Tell. Me. What. Happened. To. Him."

"I thought you said he received you happily."

"Oh but we both know what happened."

"I don't. Care to fill me in?" Mycroft said raising his eyebrow.

"He doesn't remember me."

Mycroft's face remained stoic. "He doesn't?"

"And I think you know exactly why." Sherlock leaned closer to Mycroft. "So just say it now."

Mycroft sighed. "You think I have the answers to everything, Sherlock. I'm sorry to disappoint you, dear brother, but in this case I don't."

"He deleted his blog." Sherlock said suddenly. The day after he had seen John again for the very first time, he stood up in a rush and opened his laptop, holding a strong desire to read what John used to write and remind himself of how things used to be. As soon as he typed the URL, he stood frozen in shock, reading over and over again the same announcement, as if he couldn't believe his eyes: _The blog of Dr. John H. Watson has been deleted._

If Sherlock needed any confirmation that there was something incredibly odd and wrong about this whole situation, then that was it. Right now, sitting at Mycroft's office, he remembered the feeling he had when he finally wrapped his mind about what John had done: he felt lonelier than ever. Suddenly, the John Watson who used to talk to him and keep him right in his Mind Palace was gone as well. It was as if, by deleting the blog, John had taken a bit of his memory and a bit of his life as well.

  
Mycroft didn't look amused. He simply replied: "Did he? I never really read it. Quite popular it became."

Sherlock was slowly losing his temper because he knew Mycroft knew. He had to know what was wrong because he was sure there was something his brother was hiding to him. He sighed and looked down. Once he spoke, he felt helpless, and he hated sounding like that to his brother. "Mycroft. Just please, tell me what's wrong."

Mycroft stood still for a moment, surprised by his brother's sudden show of emotions. He dragged a deep breath and pressed one of the buttons of the telephone. "Bring me John Watson's file."

Anthea came in a few seconds later, clearly John Watson was on top of the archives. Mycroft grabbed it and passed it down to Sherlock. In the first page there was a picture of John, and Sherlock had to take a breath to steady himself.

Mycroft pointed the page to Sherlock. "About two weeks ago-" He looked up to meet his brother's eyes. "He visited a clinic."

Sherlock frowned with concern. "A clinic? What for?" A sudden panic spread over his body but he tried to keep himself as devoid of emotions as possible.

"I don't know." Mycroft lied, shaking his head. He certainly didn't want to be the one to break the news to his brother. Sherlock still seemed clueless, which only reaffirmed his hypothesis that caring was not an advantage. "The clinic's name is Lacuna."

Sherlock froze right in place. He needed to focus. He knew he had heard the clinic's name before, and he was certain he had stored some information about it in his mind palace. He closed his eyes but he came up with nothing, he just couldn't _focus_. His whole mind was wondering if John was in danger, ill or injured.

"What is it about?" Sherlock finally gave up, rolling his eyes. He really hated asking his brother for help.

"That you'll have to find it by yourself." He pointed at a specific point of the paper. "...This is the address."

Sherlock sighed. Of course Mycroft wouldn't tell him, of course he wouldn't. He stood up, grabbed the paper and left without saying 'thank you' or 'goodbye'. He needed to get to that place as soon as possible.

*******

  
"I need to speak with the doctor."

"Sir if you would just calm down... Oi! you're not allowed to go in there unless you have an appointment!"

"I need to talk to you."

"I'm sorry sir, he didn't announce himself."

"That's quite alright. I'll deal this by myself. How can I help you?"

Sherlock sighed, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He was breathing hard, exhausted for all the things he had already done so far this day. When he finally caught his breath he replied. "What did you do to John Watson?"

Dr. Hawthorne raised an eyebrow. "Who is he?" He asked seriously.

At the same time, Melissa entered to the room holding a tray and stooped suddenly, standing completely frozen. Sherlock stared at her. "You!" She cleared her throat. "It's true then, you're alive!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, _great, just what I need right now, a fan taking pity on me._ "Yes I am. And I'm here to ask you what you know about the doctor John H. Watson!" He asked impatiently.

Hawthorne stared for a moment, taking in the presence of the detective standing in front of him. He wasn't quite like John described him: for instance, he wasn't as tall as apparently he was, he had big bags under his eyes and looked as if he had gone through a train-wreck. But yes, he was standing in front of Sherlock Holmes.

Melissa leaned a bit closer towards him and said angrily: "How could've you done that to him? How couldn't you tell him you were alive? I didn't want to believe what the news were saying because I thought you would never leave without letting Dr. Watson know where you were heading. You are an idiot!"

Sherlock stared at her, frowning. Who the hell was she? Did he know her? Then who did she think she was to come and say those things to him?

"Melissa..." Hawthorne said, trying to calm her down.

She sighed. "I'm sorry, Dr. Hawthorne." She turned to look at Sherlock. "...Sorry, Mr. Holmes."

"Well?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

"Well what?" Melissa frowned.

"Tell me what happened with John Watson! I'm aware he entered here and apparently you know him and me quite well, so tell me what did you do to him?"

"I'm afraid I'm not in the liberty to say."

Sherlock dragged a deep breath. "If you don't tell me right now what happened with John Watson I can swear to you I will find a way to demonstrate the illegality of what you do, documents will be provided, an investigation will be opened, and with a blink of an eye everything you've worked for would have fallen apart and you'll end up in jail. Now tell me." He said completely calm, his face expressionless.

Hawthorne pulled out a chair. "Take a seat, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock sat, knowing if they had asked him to grab a seat was because he would need to sit down after listening to what they had to say.

"Around two weeks ago, Dr. Watson came in asking for our procedures. He was very affected emotionally and requested us to do it as fast as possible. So we did."

"And may I ask, which are your procedures?"

"Well, it basically consists on activating a certain neuron on the brain which will generate a dissociative amnesia, which, stimulated by the pictures and mementos of a certain individual, will generate a lacunar amnesia, hence the name of the institution."

" _Lacunar_ amnesia?" Sherlock asked, he had quite clear what had happened now, but didn't dare to believe it.

"It means they forget a certain experience or a person."

"So..." Sherlock asked, placing both hands below his chin, his face falling apart. He didn't feel capable of finishing that sentence.

"So Doctor Watson asked us to remove every single memory of you."

Sherlock closed his eyes at the information, not knowing what to do now. Hawthorne and Melissa exchanged worried glances, since Sherlock didn't mutter a single word, didn't say anything else.

_John Watson walked into the room with his cane. "Bit different from my days." Sherlock deduced a lot just by listening to that voice._

_"Here, use mine", John Watson gave his phone to Sherlock, and suddenly he was like an open book._

_That was the beginning of it all, in a time when Sherlock thought he'd have to spend the rest of his life alone because that was the way it had to be, a time when everything was more simple._

_Far much more simple._

The Fall had ruined a lot of things, but the thing that Sherlock despised the most from the aftermath of that moment, was forcing John Watson to forget about that day, a few years ago, when he walked into a room and he saved Sherlock's life.

Sherlock wasn't sure whether he could really carry on with that memory, knowing that that moment, carefully stored inside of his Mind Palace, meant nothing for anybody else.

He had nothing in common with John Watson, nothing to link them back together, no trace.

All the roads leading to him had been erased from John's brain, and now it was all empty.

No way back, no trace left. No blog, no adventures, it might have never happened. He might have never been saved, he might have never saved John's life. Nothing. Nothing to be remembered about.

What did Sherlock have to lose now? With The Fall he lost it all.

When he finally opened his eyes, he stood up and looked determined. "I want to have the same procedure."

*******

"Hi Sarah, I'm sorry I'm late." John said rushing to grab his robe. He arrived home late, hadn't slept pretty well last night and he had fallen asleep after the alarm rang. He had to dress in a rush and practically run towards the hospital.

Sarah gave him a little nod and a smile. "It's fine. No patients have entered yet."

John sighed with relief and entered the examination room.

The day passed by faster than he thought, despite his lack of sleep. Patients came and went as usual, no serious accidents, not terrible injuries. He felt relieved because he thought he wouldn't be able to handle an emergency because he was far too sleepy.

By the time he checked the clock, it was almost 6, so he packed up his stuff and rubbed his eyes. He seriously needed some sleep or he would die of exhaustion.

When he got out to the reception, he realized Sarah was focused, reading a newspaper, which she closed quickly as soon as John approached her, but left laying on the desk.

John hated watching the news, so he tried to avoid them at all costs, he didn't read the newspapers, didn't watch the 8 o' clock news and certainly didn't read any news online. He didn't find them useful, if something too important would happen, he would find out anyway somehow.

But this newspaper caught his eye.

Perhaps not the newspaper, but Sarah's reaction as soon as she saw him.

He pretended he didn't see the way she closed it and tried to make small talk. They talked about the awful weather, the woman who had come in earlier claiming in tears she had a tumor when all she had was a bug's sting and the low affluence of patients. They always did this kind of small talks at the end of the day. Things had been a bit awkward between them after they broke up, but they had gotten used to working together.

Sarah never mentioned Sherlock to John because she knew how much he cared about his friend.

But John couldn't recall that anyway.

In a moment in which she seemed a bit distracted by a message on her phone, John looked over to her desk and realized the newspaper had a picture of him with... someone.

He frowned and leaned closer to take a better look at it. Curiosity got the best out of him and he grabbed it, while Sarah stood frozen and silent.

Before even looking at the photograph, John looked at the date. This newspaper was from _today_. How was it even possible there was something about him which might be interesting enough to be published?

He looked at the picture and recognized the man right next to him immediately. Holmes.

John shook his head. What the hell was he doing in a newspaper alongside that maniac addict? Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong. He had only seen that man twice in his life and now there were pictures of them together on the papers?

He looked down, and read the full article:

> **_Hat-Man and Robin: The end of an era?_ **
> 
> _After the shocking news published on Friday about Sherlock Holmes, there have been more questions than answers. What really happened on that rooftop? What about James Moriarty? What will happen now with the famous detective? Will he keep working for Scotland Yard?_
> 
> _But one of the questions the followers of this case keep wondering concerns Dr. John H. Watson, Holmes' partner in crime-solving, and the apparent crisis his liaison with the detective has gone through after the latter's return._
> 
> _There is not much information about the doctor whatsoever. Some followers of the duo claim that he still lives in London, yet out of the public's sight. After the events on the rooftop, which Dr. Watson witnessed, he hasn't spoken to a camera or given any interview, he has decidedly avoided the topic. The press, out of respect, has given Dr. Watson his privacy._
> 
> _Despite being out of sight for over a year, earlier this month the doctor made headlines when thousands of fans of the detective's adventures were disappointed and shocked by the sudden deactivation of Watson's blog. The website, which had gained a handful of loyal readers, was suddenly deleted without any further explanation._
> 
> _Following the astounding story's unleashing last Friday, Sherlock Holmes has been the target of speculation and amusement, but John Watson has been nowhere near to be seen. Despite avoiding any official statements, on the past couple of days the detective has been spotted without the doctor's company, which seems to raise the suspicion that things are not quite as they used to be._
> 
> _With the shocking surprises the investigation on the case has given, it is quite possible there will be more information concerning Sherlock Holmes and his former partner John Watson, as more details of the events are revealed, which might bring to light the truth of what has happened within the detective and the doctor's acquaintanceship._

  
John lowered down the newspaper, completely shocked. Sarah was staring at him, looking guilty. He couldn't come up with anything, he was completely confused, none of the things he had just read made any sense. "...I didn't know if I should have told you about it." Sarah said, her eyes no longer fixed on him. "...You didn't mention him since..."

"I don't understand." John cut her off. "What is this supposed to mean?"

Sarah shrugged. "They'll find you. They'll want to talk to you."

"About what? There is absolutely nothing to talk about!" John said, completely confused, his voice coming in a louder voice tone than he intended to.

"So you don't want to talk about it..." She said looking down.

John laughed a little, still not believing the bunch of crap he had just read. He rubbed his forehead and tossed the paper to her desk violently, feeling angry all of the sudden for being the target of such silly accusations. He didn't know how to react to them, one day he was a normal, boring person and the next day he was a superhero doctor solving crimes with a man he had only seen twice in his life? There was something completely twisted about this, and no matter how hard he tried, John couldn't find any logic in it, starting by that damn photograph he didn't recall having been taken!

He needed answers, because he wasn't crazy.

Sarah remained silent. He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself down a little. Then he looked down at her desk and took the newspaper once again, "Can I take it?" He asked trying not to freak out.

Sarah nodded and he put his coat on, clenching the fist of his left hand. "I'll see you tomorrow." He said flatly.

"John!" She said and he stopped halfway through the door and turned to look at her. "I'm sorry about all of this."

John nodded. "Me too."

He grabbed a cab as soon as he got out of the hospital, without hesitation and sounding completely convinced, he simply said: "To Baker Street. 221B Baker Street."  
  
As the cab started, John grabbed the newspaper and read the article once again.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! comments and kudos are always, always appreciated <3

"No! You can't just do that!" Melissa waved her hands in the air desperately. " _Please_ don't do that!"

Sherlock remained still and silent, as if he hadn't heard any of the words she'd said.

"Melissa!" Hawthorne warned her.

"I'm sorry doctor, but we can't let him do such thing!"

"It's _his_ decision!" Hawthorne said pointing at Sherlock, who hadn't reacted at all yet. "But I must ask you, Mr Holmes, are you sure of what you are requesting? This process is irreversible."

Sherlock didn't reply, he kept his hands below his chin and looked at a dead point.

"Let me talk to him." Melissa said, exasperated.

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"Please, Dr Hawthorne. _Please_. Let me talk to him and make him see some reason."

Hawthorne sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Two minutes."

Melissa smiled. "Thank you! Thank you! Yes, I'll talk to him."

Hawthorne closed the door and Melissa turned to look at Sherlock, who was now covering his eyes with his hands and mumbling: "there has to be something, something I'm missing..."

"Mr Holmes." She said taking a deep breath, hell, if Watson's stories were true, then she was screwed because this man would probably end up shouting deductions at her face and walking away before she could even talk him out of this idea.

Sherlock looked up and then closed his eyes. She sat down next to him. "I really admire your work. Doctor Watson's blog is just incredible."

"Was." Sherlock corrected her, without opening his eyes.

Melissa looked down. "Was." She preferred not telling him right now she had been the responsible for that, but what could she do? She was just following orders. "Listen, from what I've read, you are one of the most brilliant minds of the century." Her voice was soft and tender.

"One of them?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow, offended.

"Fine. The most brilliant mind of the century." Melissa said, fighting the urge to roll her eyes, realizing that Holmes was just like Watson portrayed him.

"Better." Sherlock said.

"The thing is, this procedure is brain damage, and although there haven't been any major consequences, it might happen that the damage could extend and affect your whole brain. Are you sure you want to risk that? Your whole career?"

Sherlock sighed. "Nothing happened to John, I'll be fine as well."

"You can't be sure of that."

"Look, I just want to forget everything about John Watson. In this place you do that, then attend my request and delete him from my mind!"

Melissa bit her lip, there wasn't much to do. Yet there was still another card on the table. "You know, Mr. Holmes? When Dr. Watson came in here, asking for our assistance, he didn't do it out of caprice, he hadn't slept in days, he was lonely and suffering nightmares and constantly seeing you dead in them. The only reason why he took that decision was because he was certain you had died, and the only relief he could find was that this procedure was permanent. He'd never see you again because you were dead, and he didn't have to think about you again because you were gone from his memory. It seemed to him like the only possible solution.

But you, you are just giving up. There are far too many solutions for you, at least he's alive, he's breathing, you didn't see him take his own life. I can assure you that if Dr Watson would have had the slightest hint of possibility of you being alive, he would have never made that choice, but there was no other way out. You _do_ have another way out. I read Dr. Watson's blog, and he said you were quite extraordinary, and used to think outside the box, but now, seeing you here, I see nothing but an ordinary man desperate to escape. Think outside the box, Mr. Holmes. Prove us you're not ordinary. Prove Dr. Watson you're not ordinary."

"But there is no other way out! He doesn't know who I am! He doesn't know I exist! He doesn't give a damn about me, then why should I give a damn about him?"

"You know, I do believe we can't always erase something completely off our memory. There will remain ashes, little paths, something to bring us back that memory we've lost. And I'm certain that deep, deep inside, Dr. Watson hasn't forgotten a single one of the memories you built together. We just hid them, but they'll find a way out, somehow, someday."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and snorted. "Oh please, do you expect me to believe that?"

"That's your choice, Mr. Holmes. If I were you, instead of trying to erase someone's memories, I'd hold onto them like treasures. You should know, isn't the mind the most precious thing we've got? Then why harming it? Why forcing it to forget something it doesn't want to forget?"

"That's what he did."

"He wouldn't have had he known you were alive. I told you, you should have seen the look on his face, he was...broken, hopeless, lost. Help him find himself, Mr. Holmes."

"Why do you care?" Sherlock said with a frown.

"Because I saw the way his eyes sparkled whenever he remembered an adventure with you, and all I could think about is through which hell he must be going through to make such a definite choice."

Sherlock remained silent. He couldn't find words.

"...plus, as an admirer of his blog, I couldn't allow you to do such thing." She said with a smile.

Sherlock sighed and stood up, pulling his coat collar up and blinking a few times, trying to go back to his expressionless face.

"So, what do you think?" Melissa asked, standing up as well.

"Not today..."

"Melissa."

"Not today, Melissa." He said with a nod and a small and almost imperceptible smile.

"Good choice, Mr. Holmes." Then she widened her eyes for a while, as if she remembered something she should say. "Oh! Mr Holmes, please, please try to stay away from Dr. Watson for a while, at least until his brain recovers from the void left by your memories. If you overexpose yourself to him, it might be a bit overwhelming for his brain and it could be dangerous. Just for a week or two, okay?"

Sherlock frowned but then nodded. She smiled.

"I do hope you can get him back."

Sherlock closed his eyes. "I hope so too."

*******  
He heard the door ring.

There was a lot of pressure applied on to the ring, a fast, sharp noise, which could only mean there was a client in desperate need for help. He jumped with excitement. It was a shame Mrs Hudson wasn't home to answer it, but he reached down the stairs happily. He needed a case, otherwise his brain was going to explode and it would give to another part of his body he didn't want to pay attention to right now, or never.

As soon as he arrived home, he deliberately and with a lot of effort placed the little blue box where the syringes were in and tucked it inside of what used to be John's closet in what used to be John's bedroom. He knew that if he had the need, this wouldn't avoid it, but would delay it. Entering John's room was painful, so painful he almost had to give up on his task. He finally managed to do it, hoping the invading memories would be enough to keep him out of that room.

He opened the door and his face fell, or brightened. He couldn't quite tell, the shock was too much for him to react properly.

John Watson was standing in the door.

John Watson was smiling at him. But not a happy smile, that bit of terrifying smile he could pull when he was furious. What the hell was he doing here?

"Can I come in?" Was all he said.

Sherlock, without saying another word, opened the door wider. John entered, taking a bit of time to climb up the stairs as he was holding his cane, and in the meanwhile, the detective could realize John's left hand was clenching and unclenching into fists. He grimaced. That was not good. Not good at all.

As soon as they arrived to the flat, John breathed hard. He turned to look at Sherlock. "Could you explain to me what the _hell_ am I doing on the bloody newspaper posing by your side?"

Sherlock frowned and John tossed the paper at him. He glanced at it. He remembered the photograph, it had been taken when they were leaving for Moriarty's trial. He sighed for a moment and looked up, John had his eyes fixed on him.

"I hadn't seen you in my life and now I'm supposedly your 'partner in crime-solving'? I don't even know what you are! What did you tell the press?"

"I..." Sherlock considered, at a loss of what to say. His brain was taking too long, he wasn't even supposed to talk to John, it was dangerous. He had to come up with an idea to hide the truth. He really had.

He opened his eyes and stared at John fixedly. Finally, he came up with an idea and his eyebrows raised. "Have you had a surgery recently, Dr. Watson?"

"Excuse me?" John said, clearly confused, that same face he once did when Sherlock asked him if Afghanistan or Iraq.

Sherlock placed his hands behind his back and started pacing the room, leaving the piece of paper over the sofa. His expression was a bit more like him, cold and calculated. "Have you had any surgery recently? in the past year and a half?"

"I- yes, a year and a half ago." He said with a frown.

"Did you need anesthesia?" Sherlock asked, hoping the answer would be yes. He raised his chain defiantly, he couldn't allow his facade to fall, he had to remain cold and stoic, now was not the time to pay attention to his emotions.

"Yes. It was a surgery on my bloody shoulder. I broke it after I fell on the street. I crashed with a cyclist and... I don't know why I'm telling you that, what does it have to do with this?"

"We've met before!" Sherlock almost shouted, hoping John would just shut up because he was starting to feel guilty. He hoped the well-timed cyclist wouldn't have done a lot of damage, but apparently it had been even worse. Witnessing a suicide and then having surgery? Oh, John.

"We've... _what_?" John asked, deepening his frown.

Sherlock dragged a deep breath and prayed all gods that what he was about to say would make a bit of coherence at least for John. "I-" He cleared his throat. "I checked into the clinic on January 29th of 2010 and you were the doctor on shift. I- I had overdosed and you had to stabilize me."

John looked towards the window, as if hoping he would remember something, but remained silent.

"...After that I helped Lestrade with a case concerning a series of suicides assisted by the use of a pill, in which you proved yourself helpful. They weren't suicides and we... solved the crime together and well... it made the headlines. Suddenly we became known as a good partnership. The press made more out of it, but that was all. I hadn't seen you since then and that day..."

"The day at the cafe you just wanted to say hello." John said, his eyes widened in surprise.

"Exactly." Sherlock said, relieved.

"That doesn't make sense." John said, rubbing the back of his neck.

Sherlock sighed. "Well... those are the facts."

"How could I possibly have forgotten about all of that? It isn't possible, it is as if there was a huge whole inside my brain and..." He brought his hands to his head, grimacing and sitting on the couch.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock asked worriedly, but not wanting to invade John's space.

"Yeah I'm fine." He said after a while.

"The anaesthetics." Sherlock said sharply.

"Mmm?" John looked up, opening his eyes.

"After a surgery, it's common the anaesthetics generate lacunas of memories. It happens quite often, it's called dissociative amnesia, and it might start by erasing irrelevant memories or people you have met before..."

"I know, I'm a bloody doctor!" John snapped angrily. He reached the newspaper and read the article once again. Well, things seemed to make sense for now. Except for... "What the hell happened on that rooftop?" John asked curiously.

Sherlock swallowed. Fortunately, in his quick glance at the article, he could see the words "suicide" or "fall" weren't there. "-I... the killer died."

"And I saw it?"

"Yes. You were there."

"I don't even know what a damn blog is!" John said, reading the article once again.

"Yeah, I don't know where they got that from. You know how those papers work, they take whatever story which creates sensation and print it without confirmation. I'm quite used to that."

"But it still doesn't make sense! How is it even possible I have forgotten all of that?" He said waving his hands through the air.

"You just saw the picture! I couldn't have possibly made up all of what I just told you!" Sherlock said, sounding a bit desperate.

"I- I..." John laughed bitterly and rubbed his eyes. "God, I'm sorry Mr. Holmes. I had no idea..."

"Clearly." Sherlock said, trying to sound cold and nonchalant and deeply hoping he had done it.

John stood up and closed his eyes once again, shutting them off forcefully, his face forming a grimace of pain, a pain so intense he had to bite his lip to resist the urge to groan. Before he could stop himself, Sherlock reached for his arm and touched it. "Are you sure you're feeling fine?" _John doesn't remember me. There are boundaries._ Still, he couldn't manage to move his hand away from where it grasped John's arm.

John opened his eyes at the touch and yanked his arm away from Sherlock. Even though the story seemed quite plausible, there was something which seemed completely off about the whole case. "Yes, I'm fine. What did you OD with?"

Sherlock bit his lip and considered his answer before replying. "Cocaine."

"How were you?"

"Unconscious when checked in. Eventually better. Managed to surpass the withdrawal. Thanks to your help."

John nodded. "Alright. And how are you handling that?" He asked curiously.

Sherlock looked down.

"Excuse me, shouldn't have asked."

"No, I'm actually going rather good. Long time since I last took it."

"But you still...the other ones?"

He sighed. "Sometimes."

"You don't seem like it." John said, keeping his eyes on Sherlock's face. "Except for the..."

"The nostrils. Yes, you said it the day at the cafeteria."

John rubbed his eyes. "Right, and injected?"

"Yes."

"So, track marks", John said glancing down at the arm that had rushed to touch him just a second ago, as if he could see through the shirt's fabric, and Sherlock felt very uncomfortable, he cleared his throat and looked away.

"Be careful with those kind of headaches." He warned him, wanting to change the topic completely.

John nodded, his eyes still closed. "Yeah, I've been having them for about two weeks and they just come and go..."

_A memory looking for a way out._ Sherlock thought to himself. He sighed.

"...It's been an exhausting day and I think the anger helped it. So I'd better be off." John said, looking at Sherlock in the eyes. They stared at each other for a moment, silently. Sherlock taking in every little detail about John and keeping it in the depths of his mind as a treasure, John wondering how the hell was it possible he had forgotten the fact he had met that particular man.

"Yes."

"Um... Sorry for the scandal." John said awkwardly.

"It's fine." Sherlock said, keeping to himself the rest of things he desperately wanted to say.

"So, I guess I'll see you later, Mr. Holmes." John said with a nod, taking his cane and moving towards the door.

"You'll sure do, Dr. Watson." He said with a tiny smile.

John walked down the stairs and Sherlock went behind him to open the door.

"Careful on your way out, perhaps there are some paps outside and..."

"People might talk." John finished the sentence.

Sherlock smiled, recalling a familiar memory, few years ago. "People do little else." He smiled.

John smiled and turned to leave.

He closed the door, confused. There was still something he couldn't understand, but he didn't even know what it was.

*******

That night turned out to be quite disturbing for John. After talking to the detective, he went straight to his flat, too exhausted to do anything else. He didn't eat, he just went to sleep.

But that had been a bad choice.

While he slept, he kept jumping from one dream to the other, not quite sure what he was dreaming of, only knowing the sleuth was there. Within the dreams John wondered what the hell was going on, he was aware of Sherlock's presence on them, but what was that man doing there?

He woke up constantly, panting, unaware of where he was, forgetting everything that was happening around him except for the face of that man.

This was unusual, more than unusual, it was quite unsettling for John. He was used to having nightmares of Afghanistan, he recalled the taste of the sand and the sound of the shots. He remembered the screams of the people, his own shout of pain when he felt the bullet on his shoulder. The image was vivid, clear and it always was the same. It got so usual that John didn't feel threatened nor terrified by it anymore.

But this... He had never dreamt any of this.

And that _terrified_ him.

The images were blurry, distorted, he barely felt as if he was part of those dreams. Sometimes he felt as if he was looking down and seeing them, like the image in a pool, with that man. Sometimes it felt as if he was looking up and seeing him, like the image in the building.

It wasn't quite clear, it wasn't specific enough, he couldn't understand any of it.

He woke up confused. He barely remembered few bits of what he dreamt, but it was mostly a blur, as if it was something there blocking the view. He couldn't hear his voice, but he could hear quite clearly Holmes'.

By the time the alarm chimed off, John groaned, rubbing his eyes. He didn't feel well-rested at all and he definitely didn't feel ready to help all of the patients. As soon as he stood up he took his hand to his head. The pain was so intense he felt as if it was going to explode.

He opened his eyes and the pain got even worse. It took all of his will to stand up and get himself ready, his head was pounding harder and harder.

He grabbed some pills and swallowed them without eating anything else. He felt his brain might explode if he did anything to force it, and that included eating.

He reached towards the clinic, trying to stop pulling faces every time he felt his headache getting deeper. Sarah greeted him with an apologetical smile. "Listen, about the article..." She started.

John stopped her by lifting a hand. "We really don't have to talk about it." If what Holmes said was true, then Sarah probably knew they had met too and to admit that he had absolutely forgotten about him would be even more embarrassing. He didn't need more people to find out about it. He definitely wanted to avoid more headlines.

He felt his stomach twist as soon as he thought about all the patients he would have to see today. His head didn't feel ready for it. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Are you okay?" Sarah asked, raising an eyebrow.

John heard Sarah's word distantly, as if she was far far away from him. He opened his eyes and narrowed them, trying to find the meaning of those distant words he heard. Finally, he said: "What? Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Just- a bloody headache."

"Do you want a pill or something?"

"No, it's fine, I'll be fine." He said, attempting to smile and poorly accomplishing it. Without muttering another word, he turned and went to his medical office.

The day seemed endless, patient after patient and John felt he couldn't take it. The hours passed and, finally, it was time to go home. He didn't take lunch. He hadn't eaten all day, the headache was too intense and every time he thought about food his stomach twisted wildly in return.

When he stood up from the chair, he felt the edges of his vision getting darker and his legs getting weaker. Numbly and quivering, he made it to Sarah's desk, and he fell down, feeling his mind shutting down and collapsing to the ground, losing the bit of strength he had left.

Sarah stood up immediately, worried. She reached for his wrist to take his pulse but it was too slow. He had just passed out but she couldn't be able to stabilize him. She would have to take him to a bigger clinic.

Without hesitation, she grabbed her phone and called Mike Stamford, hoping he would help her get an ambulance fast.

*******  
  
Sherlock's phone chimed and his eyes snapped open. He was laying on the couch, thinking. Not even sure what he was thinking about. He remembered Mrs Hudson had dropped by a few hours ago to bring him tea and had asked him to talk to John. Sherlock, trying to keep his face as still and devoid of emotion told Mrs Hudson what had happened to John, hoping she wouldn't slip and say something she shouldn't the next time he saw him.

"So, he doesn't remember me?" She asked awe-strucked as Sherlock finished.

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't know. What I do know is that he does not remember me."

She approached Sherlock and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Oh dear, I'm so sorry. You-" she trailed off, her voice quivering. "No." She said, shaking his head. "How could have he forgotten about you? That's not possible!"

Sherlock closed his eyes. "I assure you it is."

"But..."

"Mrs Hudson, you left the stove on."

"I'm not cooking." She said, trying to hold the tears.

"I smell fire. You should check." Sherlock said, desperate to end the conversation as soon as possible.

"I don't smell anything!"

"FIRE!" Sherlock yelled.

Mrs Hudson stood up frowning. "You just want me out of here, don't you?"

"For a while, if you don't mind."

"Sure." She nodded. "You must be going through a lot, coming back from the death -I'm still mad at you by the way- and finding that John... Oh, Sherlock." She said, with tears in her eyes.

"I'm sure the first floor is already on fire." Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.

"I'll just- I'll leave you here. I'll bring your tea in the morning, okay?"

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson." He said closing the door in a rush.

After that dreadful conversation, he just sprawled on the couch and closed himself from the outer world, until the phone got him out of his daze.

He frowned at it, and saw that it was a call from Lestrade. He hoped with all his will it would be a case that could put his mind to work.

"Lestrade."

"Sherlock, I just got a call from Molly. I couldn't quite understand her, but apparently John is on the ER."

"So?", Sherlock shrugged.

Lestrade shook his head repeatedly. "No, no. As a patient, not as a doctor."

Sherlock sat up immediately, his expression shifting completely. "What?"

"That's all I know."

That was all Sherlock heard.

In a rush, he grabbed his Belstaff and ran to the street to get a cab.

"To St. Barts! Hurry!"


	7. Chapter 7

 Sarah was sitting on the waiting area when Sherlock walked into the ER. He frowned, thoughtful. Were John and her together again? Unlikely. Probably they were still working together. How awkward.  
   
As soon as she saw him, she stood up and waved a hand at him. Sherlock rushed towards her and didn't greet, he merely said: "What happened?"  
   
She looked down. "He had a very serious headache but didn't pay any attention to it. I asked him if he wanted to get a replacement but he refused, I asked him to eat but he didn't and in the end it was all too much so he collapsed."  
   
Sherlock gasped when he heard the last word. "He what? Is he alright? Where is he? Why are they taking so long? I need to talk to the person in charge in here!" He said, looking around the room.  
   
"Sherlock, calm down!" He heard a voice behind him saying.  
   
He turned his coat collar up. "I am perfectly calm." He said.  
   
Lestrade stood in front of him. "I just talked to the doctor who checked on him."  
   
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, trying (and failing) to sound calmed when he really was dying of worry, going through a thousand scenarios in his mind. "What did he say?"  
   
"John is awake and is being hydrated. He will be taken to a room to keep control of his vital signs, but he's fine."  
   
Sherlock sighed in relief and closed his eyes. He opened them again when he heard Sarah talking right next to him. "That's great."  
   
He turned to look at her and rolled his eyes. "This is your fault." He said.  
   
Sarah looked startled. "I'm sorry, what?"  
   
"You're supposed to have some kind of medical training. Why didn't you do anything to help him? None of this would have happened if you would have kept an eye on him or care about him enough to make sure he was okay. You're the only reason why he's in a hospital bed right now."  
   
"Sherlock!" Lestrade scolded him, but Sarah remained silent.  
   
Sherlock took a deep breath and turned. "I'll be at the cafeteria if you need me."  
   
With an apologetic smile, Greg walked right behind Sherlock, leaving a baffled Sarah at the waiting room.  
   
"That was rude, Sherlock."  
   
"She had it coming. She didn't react as she should have." Sherlock said, fastening his pace.  
   
"Are you alright?" Greg asked with a frown, Sherlock didn't look fine at all.  
   
"Me? Yes, I'm fine. Perfectly fine. I need to see John."  
   
Greg's eyes widened and he looked at Sherlock, surprised.  
   
Sherlock realized he might have said too much, so he cleared his throat and tried to fix it. "...make sure he's fine."  
   
"I've been told he's doing fine!"  
   
"They are idiots! What if he's losing his vital signs? What if there's something wrong in his head? What if he passes out again? I need to see him!" He said, unable to hide his despair.  
   
Greg rubbed his forehead. They had reached the cafeteria. He looked at Sherlock for a moment and the sight helped him make a decision. "I'll see what I can do. You stay here." He said, pointing at him with his finger, enunciating an unspoken menace.  
   
Sherlock nodded and grabbed a seat. All he could do was waiting.  
   
About ten minutes later, he received a text: _Room 219. Don't pressure him too much, he's weak._  
   
Sherlock was already standing up and walking towards the room while reading the text.  
   
*******  
   
The door of room 219 was closed. Sherlock stood in front of it and took a moment to regain his composure.  
   
When he opened it, the first person he saw was Sarah, holding John's hand and talking to him.  
   
He frowned.  
   
John's eyes flickered to Sherlock and he fell silent. Sarah turned to look at Sherlock and let go of John's hand. "I think I should go."  
   
Sherlock was hoping deep deep inside she would leave, so he felt a bit relieved when she announced it. He replied with a nod.  
   
She stared at him, as if waiting for something from him.  
   
From the door, Sherlock heard someone clearing his throat. He turned to look at Lestrade, who was looking at Sarah. Then he looked at Sherlock and whispered: "apologize."  
   
"What for?" Sherlock asked confused.  
   
"Just do it!" Greg replied.  
   
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Fine. Ms. Sawyer, I'm sorry for what I said. I didn't mean it." _Lie_ , he told himself. "I wasn't thinking clearly." _True_ . "So yes, thank you for bringing him here."  
   
She seemed pleased with the apology and smiled at him. "You're welcome."  
   
Greg's eyes were widened. He just expected Sherlock to say "sorry" sulkily and not meaning it. But this was far much more than he could have asked for.  
   
"I'll come back tomorrow, okay? Have some food, you need to recover the energy you've lost." Sarah said, saying goodbye to John and waving a hand at Sherlock and Greg before leaving the door closed.  
   
John's attention turned to the two men in front of him.  
   
Sherlock froze. He hated to see John connected to all those wires.  
   
Greg seemed to realize of the panic crossing by Sherlock's eyes and took a step forward, waving his hand. "John. Hello. How are you feeling?"  
   
John smiled. "Greg, I'm fine. Just a bit...dizzy."  
   
"You have to get some solid food in order to recover the energy." Sherlock replied looking down.  
   
John turned to look at him. "Sorry?" He said, narrowing his eyes.  
   
"Solid food will provide you more energy, which will mean less exhaustion, and less dizziness."  
   
John stared at him. "And you are?"  
   
Sherlock felt as if he had just been stabbed. He opened his mouth to reply, but didn't know what to say. "I...I-" he faltered.  
   
John kept looking at him, curiously.  
   
If Sherlock could describe with one word exactly what he felt it would be terror. Utter, intense panic spreading all over him. A voice in his mind repeating _not again._  
   
He dreaded that cold, calculating look he saw in John Watson's eyes. A look he had never, not once, seen in his face before the fall. Now it seemed like John was studying him, seeing him as a potential threat, as someone who could cause him harm.  
   
He would never do that to John Watson.  
   
Except he had already done it and that was the reason why John was in a hospital bed now.  
   
He had caused nothing but pain to John Watson.  
   
Melissa's words came back to him: _"If you overexpose yourself to him, it might be a bit overwhelming for his brain and it could be dangerous. Just for a week or two, okay?"_  
   
He couldn't be here. Not now.  
   
It was a full circle: seeing John would cause John pain, not seeing John would cause him pain, which would force him to see John again. Either way: one of them would end up hurt.  
   
He couldn't leave. Not until he made sure he was fine.  
   
He took a step forward, tentatively. "Doctor Watson, I'm Sherlock Holmes."  
   
Greg stared at them with his mouth open. His eyes flickering from one to the other.  
   
"Have we met before? Your name sounds a bit familiar." John replied.  
   
"We have." Sherlock said, wanting to say many, many things more.  
   
John stared at him for a moment until he blinked. He shook his head and smiled a bit at Sherlock. "You're right. Sorry. I was a bit- confused. Hello, Mr. Holmes. Have you come to interrogate me?"  
   
_He still doesn't know who I am._  
   
The thought hit Sherlock like a rock and he couldn't help but grimace a little at John's unawareness.  
   
"...because I don't remember quite well what happened. But it's nothing criminal or anything, so don't worry."  
   
Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back and nodded sharply. Lestrade stared at John frowning. Silence fell in the room and Greg felt the need to fulfill it because this was just getting more and more awkward. "Um...we just wanted to check how you were..."  
   
"Yeah, I'm better. My head is aching a little but..."  
   
_This is my fault._  
  
"I guess I just need some food and sleep..."  
   
_I overexposed myself to him._  
  
"I don't understand why I'm being monitored, though..."  
   
_I'm going to end up killing him._  
  
"I'm a bloody doctor! I can take good care of myself!..."  
   
_I need to stay away from him._  
  
"I bet this is all because of Mike, is it?..."  
   
_I can't stay away from him._  
  
"He always overreacts, I feel fine! I'm fine!"  
  
_I have to._  
  
"Sherlock?"  
   
A voice brought him back. John was wrinkling his brow and pointing at him. "Is _he_ alright?"  
   
Sherlock blinked and tried to look nonchalant. "I'm... I'm fine."  
   
"Are you sure?" Greg asked, looking worried. Sherlock must be looking terrible for him to be so preoccupied. "I can bring you a glass of water, or something..."  
   
Sherlock cleared his throat. "A- A glass of water would be good. Thank you."  
   
Greg raised an eyebrow, surprised. Sherlock never accepted help and would play stubborn, but now he seemed too put down to protest.  Finally he turned to the door. "I'll be right back."  
   
Now Sherlock and John were alone in the room. The weird silence stretched. John looked down at his hands and started clenching and unclenching the fist of his left hand.  
   
"You should take a seat." John told Sherlock seriously. "You're pale."  
   
_He always cares._ Sherlock shrugged. "I've always been pale."  
   
"Mr. Holmes..." John insisted.  
   
"I don't want to take a seat!" Sherlock said raising his voice. It came out sharper than he intended.  
   
"Fine." John replied, looking unaffected, but he kept hiding his tremor.  
   
Sherlock stared at it, but didn't say anything else. John dragged a deep breath and closed his eyes, his mouth forming a grimace, indicating he was still in pain.  
   
Sherlock just looked at him, looked and looked.  
   
John looked up at Sherlock and they just stared at each other without saying another word. Sherlock wondered what John saw when he looked at him. Did he look just like anybody else? Did a tiny part of John's brain remember? Did John see all the things he wanted to say but he kept to himself? He shook the thought away, most probable option was that John saw nothing but a pathetic excuse of detective standing in front of him. That was the reason why he was looking at him questioningly. But he'd never found out, and he absolutely hated that.  
   
"...I brought you tea." Greg's voice interrupted them. Sherlock turned to look at him. Greg stopped at the door, his eyes flickering from one to the other, realizing he had just spoiled an intimate moment. Well, as intimate as it could be in a hospital while John still had no idea who Sherlock was.  
   
Sherlock cleared his throat. "Thank you."  
   
John kept looking at him questioningly. His eyes hadn't fixed on Greg's for a second since he had come back with the tea, he kept staring at Sherlock. Greg's eyes fixed on John, wondering (and hoping) John would finally _remember._  
   
Finally, John broke the silence that had settled. "So yeah, I'm fine." He said as if he had never stopped talking.  
   
Greg nodded. "Well, that's good. You scared us, mate."  
   
John frowned. "Scared _you?_ " He asked, looking at Sherlock again.  
   
Greg looked at Sherlock and tried to fix it. "Yeah, Sarah, Mike and I. We were worried."  
   
"Oh. No reason to be scared. I just felt a bit weak. Can't remember why." He shrugged.  
   
Greg's phone chimed off. He grabbed it and answered, leaving the room with an apologetic smile.  
   
Sherlock really had to resist the temptation to roll his eyes. He should have gone out with Lestrade. He tried to come up with an excuse but his mind was dozing off. Well, that was a first.  
   
John, intuitive as he was, understood everything Sherlock wasn't saying. "You can go. I'll be fine."  
   
Sherlock sat right next to a chair. "No. It's alright. Not much to do anyway."  
   
"What are you doing here, by the way? I told you, there's nothing criminal about this, hopefully."  
   
"I'm returning a favor."  
   
"What?" John asked, tilting his head to the side.  
   
"You looked after me." Sherlock said without much thought.  
   
John frowned.  
   
"...you know, after the OD." Sherlock said quickly, thinking he should probably stop forcing John's brain to remember.  
   
John rubbed his forehead. "Right." He said after a while. "Had forgotten about it. Jesus, what's wrong with me?" He asked quietly, probably trying to keep it to himself.  
   
Sherlock looked at him for a moment. He still didn't look well enough. He ignored John's question. "You really should get some sleep, Dr. Watson." Oh god, he hated calling John like that.  
   
"No, I'm fine. I have to work tomorrow."  
   
"No. You have to rest. Now _get_ some sleep!"  
   
John looked at him quizzically, with a frown. Sherlock wondered if he had crossed the line.  
   
"I'm sorry, I have to go. Murder." Greg said, rushing through the door. When he said the word 'murder', he turned to look at Sherlock, like some kind of open invitation (more like a request), to join him and help him with the case.  
   
Sherlock's eyes widened, suddenly needing the stimulation a case would bring to his brain. He considered it for a moment, but he shook his head slightly, letting Greg know he wasn't joining him.  
   
"Holmes, can I talk to you?" Greg asked Sherlock.  
   
Sherlock stood up and walked out of John's room.  
   
"You can come if you want to. Body found in the Thames."  
   
Sherlock looked down and whistled through his teeth. Tempting. But no. "I think I'll stay."  
   
"Sherlock." Greg said, trying (and failing) to give Sherlock some kind of advice.  
   
"He might be in danger."  
   
"He isn't."  
   
"He might."  
   
Lestrade sighed. "Fine. I'll give you the details later. You should get some rest, you don't look well."  
   
Sherlock threw a hand dismissively. "Boring."  
   
Greg entered back to the room and said goodbye to John. He asked Sherlock one last time before he left. "Are you sure?"  
   
Sherlock nodded.  
   
"If you need anything, just give me a call."  
   
Sherlock rolled his eyes. Greg waved at him and left.  
   
As soon as Greg left, Sherlock came back to John's room. John looked at him. "I have to go." Sherlock said.  
   
"Okay." John said with a nod.  
   
"Please get some rest, doctor Watson. You need it. And do try to eat something."  
   
John raised an eyebrow, not very amused. He didn't like receiving orders.  
   
Sherlock knew he didn't but right now he didn't really care.  
   
He came by John's bed and shook his hand. "Get well, doctor Watson."  
   
John smiled weakly. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes."  
   
Sherlock left without throwing one last look at John. As soon as he closed the door, he leaned his back against the door and sighed, rubbing his eyes. He did feel exhausted, but as usual, he tended to ignore it. His whole body seemed to be screaming now to get some rest.  
   
He talked to Mike and asked him to tell him how John was. "You're not staying with him, mate?"  
   
Sherlock sighed and shook his head. "No. He's tired and he needs to rest. I'll stay in the waiting room."  
   
"You can just go back to your flat. I'll keep an eye on him."  
   
"No. I'm not going anywhere."  
   
Mike just shrugged. Sherlock smiled to himself, Mike knew better than to fight for a lost cause. "I'll go for you if anything happens, but I doubt it, John's fine. Have a good night."  
   
Sherlock nodded and turned. He walked towards the waiting room and took a seat there.  
   
He didn't regret not helping Lestrade with the case. John needed him more right now.  
   
It was going to be a long night.  
   
*******  
   
Even though he knew looking after John wasn't the wisest choice, he couldn't help but feel worried. He wondered if his life would be like this forever, looking after John from afar, while John would be unaware of him. It seemed like a dreadful existence.  
   
His phone chimed and he took it out. It was a text from his brother.  
   
_Sherlock, I've been informed you're in hospital, are you not feeling well?_  
  
_Piss off. -SH_  
  
_I wonder why you had the need to go to a hospital. Isn't the doctor I hired checking on you?_  
  
Sherlock filled with rage.  
   
_Shut up. Just shut up. You knew all along. You_ knew _and you didn't tell me. -SH_  
  
_He is now in pain because of you. This is all your fault. -SH_  
  
_You really should stop blaming everyone but yourself for it, Sherlock._  
  
_He's not okay. -SH_  
  
_I am sorry, for not informing you, but I did feel that it was better for you to find out. I do hope you take what I've left at your flat as a sincere apology._  
  
_Why are you apologizing? You never apologize. I'm not in my flat. -SH_  
  
_I know. Are you staying there?_  
  
_John needs me. -SH_  
  
_He doesn't._  
  
_He does. -SH_  
  
_He doesn't know who you are._  
  
Sherlock turned his phone off. Last thing he needed right now was to hear from his brother. He felt too exhausted to keep up with him. He couldn't help but feel that somehow Mycroft was _right._ Perhaps it was the exhaustion taking over him, perhaps it wasn't. He couldn't quite tell.  
   
John didn't know who he was.  
   
And now he was sitting on a waiting room, surrounded by people weeping and he kept asking himself if all of this was worth it. John had decided to move on with his life, to forget about him, to leave all they had went through behind.  
   
Perhaps he should too.  
   
John wouldn't mind any way.  
   
He didn't mean anything for John, not now. He was just another silly, weird detective for him.  
   
And that was for the best, wasn't it?  
   
It was good, the feeling of not worrying about anyone, caring about nothing but the work.  
   
Yet here he was.  
   
He texted Mike.  
   
_Call me if something happens to John. I'll go to the flat. -SH_  
  
_*******_  
  
He leaned against the door at the flat, closing his eyes. It was very late at night, but he needed to get some rest. He wouldn't have bothered, tossing the thought away as unnecessary, but his exhaustion was fogging his mind and he couldn't let that happen.  
   
He didn't remember when was the last time he had gotten some proper sleep, certainly not since he came back to London.  
   
A small folder was placed over the table in front of the sofa. Sherlock stopped and stared at it. He remembered Mycroft's text. It was obviously some boring file about someone or the archive about a murder because Mycroft thought he could solve anything with bribes.  
   
He almost tossed it to the trash, but as soon as he picked it up, he realized the folder was a bit heavier than he expected.  
   
He looked at it with a frown, curiosity getting the best of him.  
   
He took out three things: a picture of John, a piece of folded paper and a cassette.  
   
He opened the paper and was surprised to find it had been written by Mycroft.  
   
_Dear brother,_  
  
_I'm sure by now you would have already found out about the truth. I hope you understand that keeping it from you was for your sake but in the end there was nothing I could do to stop you._  
  
_There was nothing I could do to stop him either._  
  
_He moved on with his life and so should you._  
  
_Hopefully you'll find the picture and the tape useful, as some way to keep John's memory alive in that brain of yours._  
  
_I'll keep an eye on John, naturally, but I'd advise you to stay away from him Sherlock, for his well-being and yours._  
  
_-MH._  
  
Raising an eyebrow in surprise, Sherlock examined the tape, it didn't have any title or anything, and the tape hadn't been so used. He took a small tape recorder he had stolen from Lestrade some years ago, and curiously pressed play, sitting on his chair and wondering what could be so important that Mycroft's minions had kept a record of.  
  
He choked a gasp as John's voice filled the flat. He expected to hear anything but John's voice, or perhaps he hoped he would hear him, what he didn't expect was to hear John so...miserable.  
   
_"My name is John Watson and I'm here to erase Sherlock Holmes."_  
  
Sherlock pressed pause. A card fell from the tape. It was small and white and said "Lacuna, Inc." on the back. On the front it simply stated: " _John Watson has had Sherlock Holmes erased from his memory. Please never mention their relationship to him ever again. Thank you."_

  
He put a fist on his mouth, closing his eyes and trying to gather some strength to carry on with the recording.

 


	8. Chapter 8

_"Tell us about your relationship with Sherlock Holmes"_  
  
Don't. Don't tell them. They wouldn't understand. They never understand, they always got it wrong, or they always got it right _._  
  
_"No, no there was not such thing as a relationship."_  
  
No. There wasn't. Certainly.  
  
_"Fine, tell me about your friend, then."_  
  
Don't. Don't tell them. They wouldn't understand. They never understand, they always got it wrong, or they always got it right.  
  
Sherlock recalled the story vividly as John described it. January 29th, 2010. How could he ever forget that day? How can John not remember that day? How could he let go of that memory? A memory so important, a memory so deep, so huge that Sherlock held it on a locked room in his Mind Palace, one of those images which were fixed on his brain, unwilling to go away, to be erased, to be forgotten.  
  
_"Why don't we start with the end?"_  
  
No. Not the end. He didn't want to listen to the end, John didn't want to either. Why would they do this to John? Why make him remember that moment? Why not make him remember that day they came back to the flat after chasing a cab through the city? That day when they just leaned against the wall, gleaming with excitement, John forgetting about that damn limp, Sherlock certain that for the first time in his life he had found someone he could call his  _friend._  
  
Now the limp was back and Sherlock didn't have any friends.  
  
_"He's dead. He killed himself."_  
  
_He didn't and you'd know if you hadn't done this,_ Sherlock thought to himself.  
  
_"And I couldn't do anything, I couldn't save him, I couldn't tell him I believed in him."_  
  
Sherlock dragged a deep breath. John didn't understand, John didn't know, John didn't figure it out, he didn't need to be saved, John was the one who needed to be saved, John was the reason why he made his choice.  
  
_But then, you never told him._  
  
A message he had gotten from his brother earlier popped into his mind.  _You really should stop blaming everyone but you, Sherlock._  
  
_"And then I never really got to say goodbye."_  
  
But Sherlock did. And he expected he wouldn't need to get a goodbye. He wouldn't need a goodbye because he'd be back, he knew he'd be back. If only he would have known.  
  
John left without a goodbye.  
  
He didn't get a goodbye.  
  
This was the closest he'd ever get to a goodbye.  
  
_"He didn't know he was the most human... Human being that I had ever known and he made me so happy and he was my best friend"_  
  
A lie. It was a lie. John meant it when he said it, when he told Sherlock he was a machine, and he believed it, he accepted it, he embraced it.  
  
He should feel insulted for being called 'human', Sherlock wasn't human, Sherlock wasn't capable of feeling things that way. But he didn't, he denied it, but a small, tiny part of him told him John was right. And John was the only one who ever got to meet the human being behind the... The machine, behind the addict, behind the sociopath.  
  
John had gotten it all wrong. Sherlock never made him happy. No. Danger made him happy. Danger was close to Sherlock, but it wasn't him. He was an ignorant and obnoxious person, and how John Watson dared to call him his friend was completely beyond him.  
  
_"And I would have gone with him."_  
  
Sherlock stopped the recording. No. No, no, no, no. Sherlock was protecting John, ensuring his safety, if all of this had been in vain, if John Watson would have died... The thought was unbearable. Just the idea of losing him, it was impossible, no.  
  
But it was all in vain.  
  
John didn't remember now.  
  
But at least he's alive. And now he'll never think that again.  
  
Why did he say it anyway? Did he really believe it? Would have John gone with him? No, of course not. It didn't make sense. Nothing of this made sense, Sherlock started doubting if this was even real, if this was even John's voice, speaking those words.  
  
He knew, deep deep inside, it was true. He just didn't dare to admit it.  
  
_"If I knew this would be my life without him, I would have just died off that rooftop too."_  
  
Contrary to what most people thought, Sherlock knew what pain was. Had felt it before, a thousand times, on a thousand different places. Pain worse than what he felt on Serbia, pain worse than the one he felt when he said goodbye to John. Knew all the kinds of pain, physically, emotionally, psychologically, all of them pushed to their limits.  
  
He knew what pain was, and had a lifetime of it to prove it.  
  
But none of those experiences, absolutely any of them, could be compared with the stabbing, constant, deep pain he felt just at the thought of John Watson dying. Just by thinking about it, he felt he preferred being chained back on Serbia, it was more endurable than imagining a life apart from John Watson.  
  
Worse, John Watson dying  _because of him._  
  
Unbearable. Unsustainable. Impossible.  
  
He couldn't even contemplate the idea of coming back from his fake death just to find John dead. It would have been the death of him.  
  
_"He was a good man."_  
  
Lie. A huge, terrible, blatant lie. He wasn't a good man. Never was, never will be.  
  
John turned him into a hero, and he never deserved it, and he asked him not to do it. But he did it and Sherlock believed it for a moment. He thought he was being a hero when he jumped.  
  
John made him believe he could be the hero.  
  
John was laying in an hospital bed.  
  
A huge, terrible, blatant lie.  
  
_"He was important for me... Is. Always will."_  
  
A huge, terrible, blatant lie.  
  
Sherlock knew from his own experience that one can never, ever promise an 'always', those kind of things only exist on fairytales. Always is an illusion, something created to generate sentiment, to make people believe that there was something beyond life itself, something immortal.  
  
Idiots.  
  
John Watson was no exception to that.  
  
But he believed it, because he was ordinary, just like everybody else.  
  
Except he wasn't.  
  
So always didn't exist. Never did, never will. John said he'd always believe in him, yet here he is, not knowing even who he was, who he used to be, what he was for him.  
  
He wasn't important to John now.  
  
There was no such thing as always.  
  
John lied.  
  
_"He was the best that could have ever happened to me."_  
  
Wrong. He couldn't be. He wasn't that kind of person, he wasn't the kind to leave marks on other people, to make people  _different,_ to make them  _better._ Sherlock Holmes was many, many things, but  _the best thing that could have ever happened to someone_ wasn't one of them.  
  
John Watson had been a doctor, had been to war, had saved people's lives, had lived a thousand different experiences, had made it alive. He saw danger with his own eyes, he lived the danger, and he was a healer.  
  
Yet Sherlock Holmes was the best thing that happened to him.  
  
That wasn't right.  
  
Therefore, it was a lie.  
  
That's what Sherlock told himself, because it made it easier, because it made it somehow more bearable, because if he stopped for a moment and thought about the fact that it's his fault that John Watson had to witness the best thing that had ever happened to him falling off a rooftop and fading away any chance, any possibility of  _life,_ then he felt something like regret.  
  
And he didn't allow himself  to feel things that way.  
  
Because feeling things that way was what weak people did. And he wasn't weak, he never lost.  
  
Yet, he lost John.  
  
_Delete that thought._  
  
The conversation moved onto talking about John's blog, and Sherlock listened to it half-absently, while his mind wandered around a thousand different thoughts he didn't particularly want to be having at the moment, or never.  
  
_“Because I have nothing to write about. Nothing ever happens to me, not anymore. Not since he fell.”_  
  
That bit, Sherlock could tell was truth. He saw it in John's eyes when they first met, that endless desire for emotion, for adrenaline, for feeling the blood pumping through his veins. Sherlock gave him that, he knew it, and he told himself that that need for danger was what brought John to him, the only reason why he stayed by his side.  
  
That was all he got. The tape ended.  
  
It didn't feel like a goodbye.  
  
He didn't get a goodbye from John Watson.  
  
But then, goodbyes were for people who were alive to listen to them. And he was dead. In a thousand different ways.  
  


*******

  
  
Sherlock had played the tape three times more, just to go back to a time when John was aware of his existence. It felt...relieving somehow, having the tape, and he hated his brother. He really did. Because he knew Sherlock, he knew that he'd find some comfort in it. And he shouldn't find it, because John was broken, ripped apart by the moment he went to that damn clinic. But he did, and he hated himself for it too.  
  
He was playing a song on his violin, the fourth one of the night, while he stared through the window. He could tell from looking out the sky that it was somewhere between three and four a.m. Well, he knew he wouldn't sleep that night.  
  
His phone rang.  
  
Sherlock threw,  _threw_ his violin to the ground and ran to grab it, and felt his heart rush when he stared at the screen and saw that Mike Stamford was calling him.  
  
_No no no no no no no no no no no no no._  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Sherlock, it's me, Mike-"  
  
"Yes, yes save the formalities, what happened?"  
  
There was a second of silence on the other end of the line. There was an eternity of panic rising inside of Sherlock during that second. Finally, Mike replied, his voice low. "We can't find John."  
  
Well, Sherlock was certainly not expecting  _that._ "What?", he said widening his eyes.  
  
"We- we've been looking for him all over the hospital but he's not there-"  
  
Sherlock hung up.  
  
A minute later he was sitting on a cab on his way to Bart's.  
  
Sherlock ignored the voice of the receptionist telling him that visits were  _not_ allowed and strode into the second floor of the hospital almost running, Mike was briskly talking to one of the doctors while the man just shook his head.  
  
Sherlock never really cared about formalities, so he stepped into the conversation. "When was the last time you saw him?", he asked sharply.  
  
Mike widened his eyes in surprise when he saw Sherlock standing in front of him and swallowed nervously before replying. "Around forty minutes ago, it doesn't make sense, he was sleeping and when I passed by to check him again... he was gone."  
  
"You had one job!", Sherlock snapped angrily.  
  
"Sherlock", Stamford replied calmly, "I'm on shift, I have to check on other patients, yet I've been paying attention to John's state-"  
  
"Well, you certainly paid him a  _great deal_ of attention!"  
  
Mike stared at the man in front of him and shook his head, clearly resisting the urge to start a fight with him, Sherlock briefly wondered why, if that's what everyone else did, call him a freak or a psychopath. Yet Mike dragged a deep breath and stared at Sherlock seriously. "Look Sherlock, either you help me find him or you go away. This is a hospital and I can get your arse kicked out of it in a second. Your choice."  
  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow defiantly and without muttering a single word, he started walking fast, peeking inside the patients' rooms.  
  
He went downstairs towards the morgue. He looked around, everything was so cold, so dim, every trace of life taken away from that place, both metaphorically and literally. In such a place, he'd find John immediately, the only ray of life conducting light into it. Of course, he wasn't there.  
  
He went upstairs towards the lab. He held a vague hope that John, brilliant, smart, doctor John felt the want to entertain his boredom with an experiment. But John Watson wasn't Sherlock Holmes. He didn't conduct experiments just for the sake of it. He hated them.  
  
He found nothing when he walked into the place. It was the first time he wandered around it since the day of the fall, and he felt the memories flooding inside of him, threatening with burying him, bury him inside his own mind palace.  
  
A tiny ball bouncing against the floor. John falling asleep. John's phone ringing and waking him up while Sherlock sat on a chair, looking fixedly at him, knowing it would be the last time in a very long time that he'd get the chance to do it so, storing it all on that corner, that corner of his mind palace which had become the place where he stored everything about John.  
  
It never crossed his mind it would be the last time that he'd get the chance to do it so.  
  
The corner of his mind palace dedicated to John Watson, of course, wasn't a corner anymore.  
  
John's voice breaking with worry.  _He always worries._ Sherlock remembered thinking. John grabbing his jacket, telling him that Mrs. Hudson was dying. Sherlock looking away and trying to look as devoid of emotion as possible. " _You go I'm busy."_  
  
John's next words hit him, hit him hard.  _"You...machine."_  
  
Sherlock remained stoic. And told himself that feeling was losing and he couldn't lose.  
  
_"Alone is what I have, alone protects me."_  
  
Sherlock wished, deeply wished that it wasn't a lie. Yet John Watson had proved him wrong. Had proved him wrong since their very first case together, when the bullet crossed through the glass and killed with an almost unbelievable accuracy to the man who was forcing him to prove clever.  
  
And John Watson saved Sherlock Holmes for the first time.  
  
That time,  _not_ being alone protected him.  
  
_"No. Friends protect each other."_  
  
If only John had known, if only he had the faintest idea that Sherlock agreed, that Sherlock knew that, and that was what he was doing when he fell. Protecting John.  
  
Yet John left, and carried the belief that he wasn't enough to keep Sherlock from falling.  
  
Of course he wasn't enough to keep Sherlock from falling, if John's safety was involved, nothing, absolutely nothing, not even John himself would keep him from falling.  
  
He'd fall a thousand times if it meant making John safe.  
  
He was losing.  
  
He never lost.  
  
The chemistry lab was empty and Sherlock needed a moment to recover himself from the memories hitting him. He took a deep breath and stood by the door, grabbing the knob as if his life depended on it. Perhaps it did, because he felt if he didn't kept holding it, he'd lose whatever physical strength he had left in his body and collapsed.  
  
He asked himself when was the last time he had eaten.  
  
And he, Sherlock Holmes, the genius with his own mind palace, couldn't  _remember_ when he had last eaten.  
  
Well, that explained the weakness.  
  
He shook his head and closed the door.  
  
As soon as he did, a thought crossed his mind. But no, he didn't want to contemplate that possibility, that very, very possible possibility.  
  
Sherlock Holmes felt fear at the thought of going to that place.  
  
He felt something.  
  
He was losing.  
  
He never lost.  
  
He straightened his back, cleared his throat, tried to gather as much strength as possible, and walked determinedly towards his next destination.  
  
He climbed up the stairs, two at a time, if it was anxiety, nervousness, fear, he couldn't tell, he just needed to  _know._ He was received with the cutting, sharp cold of a London night as he made it upstairs, it was all so similar, him, climbing the stairs alone, towards that place he hadn't visited in eighteen months.  
  
He should have been surprised. He really should have.  
  
But no, he wasn't, he was definitely not surprised at all.  
  
Not surprised when he found John on the rooftop of St. Bart's.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock's work had shown him a lot of things. Too many things. He'd seen it all. He really, really had. He couldn't expect anything to take him by surprise.  
   
But he had to admit he was surprised when he walked into the rooftop, and his body started trembling uncontrollably.  
   
_I'm not dying he's not dying stop trembling stop trembling don't lean close to the edge be careful don't look down don't look down he's not there he's not down he's here and you can save him stop trembling and go save him move go and save John Watson try to breathe or you'll hyperventilate don't look down don't look down_ .  
   
Sherlock walked slowly, taking deep breaths and really, really trying to control himself, but this, whatever this was, was out of his control, he was _panicking._ But he never panicked.  
   
John was sitting on the very edge of the rooftop.  
   
_He's holding onto the rooftop he's looking up not down why is he looking up and not down? He's not planning to throw himself from it then what is he doing here? Get down for gods sake John get down before I lose control._  
  
Sherlock sat on the edge of the rooftop too, right next to John, but facing the other way, which meant that unlike John, he was safe unless somebody pushed him, his feet on the ground of the rooftop. _Don't look down don't look down he's not there he's here he's right next to you you're not saying goodbye you're not going to die stop trembling why are you trembling._  
  
He waited a few seconds, trying to hide the tremor in his hands, willing his lungs to find some air because he was definitely not panicking and he wasn't having flashbacks to that day.  
   
When he finally gathered some courage, he spoke up. "What are you doing here, Dr. Watson?"  
   
John turned to look at Sherlock for a moment, his eyes widening, while Sherlock decidedly did not stare at him because his body would betray him and he'd show how terrified and how weak he felt in that moment. Then John turned back to stare into the horizon.  
   
"I wanted some air", John replied calmly.  
   
_Don't look down he's not there he's here take a deep breath he's okay he's talking to you he's not going to die control yourself._  
  
"Why couldn't you just go down?"  
   
"I don't like it down there", John said, not looking at Sherlock either. "Plus, the view is way better from up here."  
   
Sherlock didn't want to look down and didn't want to look at John so he opted to look at the sky, at an unusually cloudless sky, with stars. The longer he looked at it, the more stars appeared. He remained silent and while he looked at the sky, his trembling faded.  
   
John looked at him silently for a moment, and then looked up to the sky. "It's beautiful, isn't it?"  
   
Sherlock turned to look at John for a moment. "Yes", he looked up again. "Yes, it is." A distant memory popped into his head.  
   
"See? I wouldn't get the same view from down there. It's better from here, we're closer."  
   
Closer indeed.  
   
"You should get down, Dr. Watson, you aren't supposed to be here, you're going to freeze."  
   
John shrugged. "Did they send you here?"  
   
"What?", Sherlock said, turning back to him while John remained stoic.  
   
"I saw you getting out of a cab and rushing towards the entrance. Did they call the police? Did they think I was going to throw myself or...?"  
   
"Dr. Watson, I am many, _many_ things, but policeman is not one of them. I work with them occasionally, but that doesn't mean I work _for_ them."  
   
John smiled, _smiled._ "Then what are you doing here?"  
   
"I was looking for you."  
   
"Why?"  
   
"Wanted to check on you. See how you were, you weren't on your room, and I ended up here."  
   
John nodded, but otherwise remained silent, staring into distance. Sherlock examined him, his breathing was a bit slower than usual, which was probably because his body's temperature was going down.  He grimaced a bit whenever he moved or when a cold breeze passed by, which meant he still had the headache, but other than that, he looked healthier. "Your head is still hurting."  
   
"Yes", was all John said.  
   
"What are you thinking about?", Sherlock asked softly, but immediately wished he could take it back. John clenched the fist on his left hand, trying to hide the tremor.  
   
John remained silent.  
   
It was better that way.  
   
Sherlock turned to look down for a moment, and immediately started trembling. His mind deceived him, he could have sworn he saw John standing right there, on the ground, looking up at him. His breathing was uneven, and rushed, and he closed his eyes because suddenly all of this was too much and he needed the reassurance that John was next to him, that John was alright, that John wouldn't scream "Sherlock!" From the top of his lungs.  
   
"You- you...You-", he couldn't carry on, he couldn't breathe. _Don't lose control keep talking breathe don't lose it._  
  
John turned towards him and worry drew on his face. "Are you alright, Mr. Holmes?"  
   
_Nobody could be that clever._  
  
_You could._  
  
"I- I'm fine."  
  
_It's a trick. It's just a magic trick._  
  
_Stop it, stop it now!_  
  
"You don't look fine. Are you afraid of heights?"  
  
_Don't move! Keep your eyes fixed on me!_  
  
"Y- yes. Yes, I'm fine."  
   
_"Please, would you do this for me?"_  
  
_"Do what?"_  
  
"Ple- please, Dr. Watson, get off the rooftop. Please."  
   
_"Leave a note when?"_  
  
_"Goodbye, John."_  
  
"PLEASE!", Sherlock yelled suddenly, standing up and startling John.  
   
John stood silent for a moment, but then nodded. "Alright."  
   
He turned but flinched a bit. John's face blushed, and he cleared his throat before he could speak again. "My- my leg."  
   
"Is it hurting?", Sherlock asked, feeling a bit calm now that he wasn't looking down anymore.  
   
John nodded and looked down, embarrassed. "Mr. Holmes, could you please help me?"  
   
Sherlock dragged a deep breath and nodded, leaning towards John, offering his hand.  
   
John grabbed it tightly.  
   
_"Take my hand!"_  
  
_"Now people will definitely talk."_  
  
Sherlock shook the thought away and focused on helping John, he gathered all his strength while the doctor struggled to move his legs, which were still hanging in the air.  
   
In a second, Sherlock looked down again and saw John, standing right next to that ambulance station, looking up at him with the phone in his hand and he gasped and moved a little.  
   
A hand was holding his tightly.  
   
John was right here, not there, _here._  
   
John was staring at him as if he was some kind of mystery, something he couldn't understand or figure out completely.  
  
Oh but he did. He once understood him. He just didn't remember.  
   
Finally, after an endless moment, John was safe and sound, back on the ground, standing on the rooftop, away from the edge.  
   
The sky was getting just a bit clearer, and the first hints of light were appearing. They moved further from the edge and stood there, next to each other silently.  
   
Sherlock's trembling stopped as soon as he felt the heat radiating from John's arm as it lightly brushed his own, they used to do that, barely knew the boundaries of each other's personal space, but it startled him anyway. It didn't make sense, it was a cold night, Sherlock was wearing his Belstaff, the fabric of the Belstaff was too thick, and he had a layer of suit jacket and a layer of shirt of distance between skin and skin.  
   
Yet, he felt the heat from John's arm, the warmth, the comfort.  
   
And he wasn't scared anymore.  
   
Both stared into the view in front of them.  
   
Sherlock broke the silence. "Yes, you're right. Indeed it's a beautiful view."  
   
John smiled and nodded in agreement.  
   
Sherlock turned to look at John, he was only wearing the hospital robe, yet the only part of his body that was trembling was his left hand. He looked down and... "Where did you get those slippers from?", Sherlock asked curiously with a frown, he had seen John's shoes and they were definitely not like the ones he was wearing.  
   
John looked down and smiled a bit. "I couldn't find my socks, so I went into one of the nurse's rooms", he looked up to Sherlock, and his eyes gleamed while he tried to stifle a laugh. "And there was a couple of nurses going at it, so I slipped into the room and took them and they didn't even notice."  
   
Sherlock couldn't help but laugh, and he found that this was the first time in a very, very long time that he laughed a genuine, humorous laugh, so he allowed himself to enjoy the moment, and he kept laughing. John joined him and they both laughed and laughed for a while. For a second it seemed just like the old times.  
  
_"We can't giggle, it's a crime scene!"_  
   
For a second.  
   
John straightened his back and brought his hand to his head, grimacing with pain. Sherlock leaned closer instinctively. "Are you okay?", he asked worriedly.  
   
John nodded, his eyes still closed. "Yes, my head's just a bit... Sore."  
   
"Let's get you back to your room."  
   
John threw his head back and groaned. "Why do I have to go back to that hideous place? It's too boring!"  
   
_You sound like me._  
  
"You have to get some rest, Dr. Watson. Then you'll be good as new and you'll be able to leave."  
   
He rolled his eyes but nodded. "Fine."  
   
They went downstairs and, in the moment they arrived to the second floor, Mike received them with a mix of relief and anger. He turned to look at John. "Where the hell were you?"  
   
John turned to look at Sherlock and widened his eyes, as if secretly asking him for help because Mike was going to kill him.  
   
"He was taking some air, downstairs. Outside of the hospital", Sherlock replied tilting his chin up and trying to look secure and convincing.  
   
Mike looked down and shook his head. "And are you alright?"  
   
"I made sure he's fine. Just a bit sore but I think he'll be able to leave the hospital very, very soon", Sherlock replied, turning to look at John.  
   
Mike raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. "Sherlock, flash news, you're not a doctor, you have no saying in this", Mike said, clearly still furious at them.  
   
Sherlock turned to look at John and shrugged, as saying, _I tried._  
  
"No, but seriously, I'm feeling better mate."  
   
"Well, I'm the one who decides that and I won't check on you until the morning so let's get you to your room and get some sleep."  
   
Sherlock looked at the stack of clinic files that Mike was holding and stopped him. "I'll get him to his room, you go and check on the other patients."  
   
John threw a small side-smile at Sherlock.  
   
Mike remained serious, "I don't know if I can trust you'll take him to his room."  
   
"I brought him here, didn't I?", Sherlock said firmly.  
   
Mike hesitated for a second but then nodded. "Yes, fine."  
   
Sherlock smiled and walked with John towards his room.  
   
"Great!", John said as they walked. "Take me out of here!"  
   
Sherlock stopped and looked at him. "For a doctor, you're very stubborn."  
   
John's face fell. "You're not going to help me escape?"  
   
Sherlock scoffed. "Of course not! I'll take you to your room and make sure you're comfortable and asleep."  
   
John groaned.  
   
"Now now, let's go, Dr. Watson."  
   
As soon as they arrived to John's room, Sherlock moved towards the bed and arranged it a little. "Okay, get yourself under the covers, you must be freezing."  
   
"I just-", John argued.  
   
Sherlock shook his head, "no, no no. No excuses, you're going to get some sleep."  
   
"But I-"  
   
"I said sleep, Dr Watson!"  
   
"But I have to pee!", John said walking towards the bathroom. "Be right back. Don't worry, I won't escape."  
   
"Oh", Sherlock said, feeling a bit embarrassed of himself.  
   
His gaze turned towards the little table right next to John's bed and he slowly walked towards it, he opened the first drawer and found John's phone.  
   
This was certainly a bad idea. He should get away from John.  
   
But he couldn't. Something always brought him back to John.  
   
He took it out, checked it a bit, it was different from the one he had when they first met, this one was newer, but John didn't care much about it, and he barely used it, judging from the state of it.  
   
He placed it back on the drawer and was sitting on the chair when John came back.  
   
"I'm still wondering-", John said while he placed himself under the covers. "What are you doing here?"  
   
"I don't even know myself", Sherlock replied with a shrug.  
   
John smiled. "Well anyway, thank you, Mr. Holmes, for everything."  
   
Sherlock nodded. "You're welcome. Get well and sleep."  
   
John nodded.  
   
Sherlock walked away from the room.  
   


*******

  
   
Sherlock was almost at his front door when he heard his phone ringing. He took it out and hoped it was something from Lestrade, because his brain was aching for stimuli. Hopefully they hadn't made any advancements on the Thames' case. It sounded like fun, but he was too worried for John to care.  
   
It was a message from an unknown number.  
   
He unlocked the phone.  
   
 _Apparently I'm not the only one good at stealing._  
  
Sherlock climbed up the stairs and smiled widely as he read the text. He quickly typed a reply.  
   
 _You're supposed to be sleeping, Dr. Watson. -SH_  
  
The reply came back almost immediately.  
   
 _Can't. Call me John._  
  
This was certainly a bad idea _._ Terrible idea.  
  
 _Get some rest. -SH_  
  
 _How did you do it?_  
  
 _Sleep, John. -SH_  
  


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated :3 thank you so much to those who've left them! x

To say that Sherlock was anxious of visiting John was an understatement.   
  
He didn't get any sleep, starting by the fact it was already morning when he arrived back to 221B but also because he kept checking his phone over and over. Obviously it wasn't because of John's texts, obviously not. Definitely not. It was to see if Mike needed anything from him or something. Yes, certainly that was why.   
  
He was exhausted but he couldn't get any rest, his thoughts wandered around everything that had happened the night before, the rooftop, the messages, the tape, oh god the tape.   
  
As soon as Sherlock thought about the tape all the good thoughts he'd had so far faded. Melissa had been clear with him, she had asked him to stay away from John, for John's sake, and he wasn't even capable of it? He should, he really should be strong enough to stay away from him.   
  
He wasn't going to the hospital that day. He'd try to stay away from John, it was for his own good.   
  
He texted Lestrade and asked him to allow him to see the body. Reluctantly, he had to go to St. Bart's morgue and it took all his will to stop him from running upstairs and going to check on John.   
  
Apparently it was evident from his face that he was exhausted. Lestrade grimaced when he saw him.   
  
"When was the last time you slept properly? You have huge bags under your eyes, Sherlock!"   
  
"I don't know, when did I fake my death?", Sherlock snapped back because it was true, those days before... The fall were the most peaceful ones, the ones he cherished the most, the one he kept locked in his mind palace just in case he needed something to calm him down, and since that moment, he hadn't had a single peaceful and quiet night, it all would have been easier if John wouldn't pop into his dreams, which sometimes turned into nightmares, he thought they would go once he saw John again, but they only got worse, so what he told Lestrade wasn't a lie.   
  
Lestrade, however, rolled his eyes and walked towards the body, which was now covered with a white blanket.   
  
"Eleanor Thorpe, early twenties, the cause of death was this-", he pointed towards the abdomen, where a red wound crossed the middle of her belly, it was a long and deep cut. "Wound on her abdomen, she was stabbed 12 times. Some passers by found her body on the edge of the Thames."   
  
Sherlock leaned closer and examined her. He looked at her arms, at her wounds, most of them on her torso, examined her toes, opened the lids of her eyes and saw their coloration, and tried very hard to focus and not think about the fact that John was upstairs. Two floors from here. Not so far. Not far at all. Yet so completely apart.   
  
"She was a student, something related with social sciences, she was fighting for a cause, and this was a hate crime."   
  
"What?", Lestrade asked.   
  
"There's a stain of ink on the fingers of her left hand, which means that she is used to write a lot, what might indicate that she's not on a exact science since they'd use mostly pencils. She studies something different, then. It could be either sociology or anthropology, even. The next thing is not so hard to find, look at the bracelets she's wearing: the pride flag, one with the message "I fight for equality" and this one is from last year's gay parade at London, I recognise the logo. She is part of the community, much more than that, she fights for equality and it might seem like she really believes in her cause.   
  
"Look at her jeans, she looks like she hardly cared for her appearance at the moment of the crime, which means that she wasn't planning on going anywhere when she was murdered, it's the week of finals on all universities on the country, so it's quite probable she was at home, studying and the person, whoever it was, knew her enough to know where she lived.   
  
"She was stabbed forcefully, but from the pattern of stabbing, it seems like the first one was on her back, which took her by surprise and also made her weaker, unable to resist the attack. There are no signs of counterattacks or attempts to run away, so the first one must have been quite effective, and yet- yet- she was stabbed twelve times. This wasn't just a hate crime, there were also personal affairs involved with it.   
  
"Check the LGBTI associations created on the high-standard universities, it's quite probable she was part of one of them, even directed them, once you find out where she studied, you'll get to go to her bedroom, contact me when you've found it, we'll look for evidence there."   
  
Lestrade stared at the body, surprised. He sighed and nodded, looking at Sherlock.   
  
Sherlock's phone sounded. It took Sherlock less than a second to reach for it, not that he was expecting it to sound, no, not at all, and if he felt a weird sensation on his chest, well that was because he was standing in front of a dead body.   
  
_Coming?_   
  
The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched up a bit as he quickly typed a response, but before he hit 'send', he stood still and thought about what he was doing and what the consequences were. He had to stay  _away from_ John Watson, he wasn't helping, he was making everything worse, but he just couldn't find the strength to say no, to run away, not from John, not anymore.   
  
_Not sure if it's a good idea, you should rest, and I'm not helping -SH_   
  
Greg raised an eyebrow and looked at Sherlock intently, trying to figure out what was making Sherlock smile in the middle of a crime scene, which was perhaps the most unusual sight he'd ever seen.   
  
_You've done more than the doctors in here._   
  
_Please, Mr. Holmes._   
  
_Call me Sherlock -SH_   
  
Sherlock frowned and looked up to Greg before typing again. "Hm?", he asked, sounding a bit distracted. Then apparently he'd seen enough from Lestrade's face, and walked out of the room rolling his eyes. Greg followed him, walking behind him and struggling to catch up.   
  
"How's John?", Greg asked, smirking.   
  
Sherlock sighed, but didn't stop walking. If anything, he only fastened his pace.   
  
"Remembered you, has he?"   
  
Sherlock stopped abruptly and turned to look at Greg seriously and fixedly. "No."   
  
He turned and kept walking.   
  
"No? What do you mean no?", Lestrade asked, a bit surprised.   
  
Sherlock dragged a deep breath before talking again, this time not looking at Lestrade, his gaze fixed on the path to second floor. "He erased  _me_ from his mind."   
  
Lestrade scoffed. "What? Erase you? That's absurd!"   
  
"It isn't", Sherlock replied.   
  
"But this is John Watson we're talking about, he wouldn't do this to you, you know him better than that."   
  
_You know him better than that._   
  
No, he didn't.   
  
He stopped on his tracks once again, turning to look at Lestrade, rage filling all over his body. "WELL HE DID!", he yelled.   
  
Greg remained silent for a while, as if he still couldn't believe what Sherlock was saying. He stared at him and finally replied, looking worried. "Tell me what happened."   
  
Sherlock sighed. "He went to a clinic and asked to erase every trace of  _me_ from  _his_ memory. When I came back it was too late."   
  
Greg scratched his head. "Does it mean...?"   
  
"That he won't recognise me and won't remember a single thing that happened. He knows about the cases, about you, about everything,  _everything_ but me", Sherlock looked down, he couldn't allow his emotions to show, he swallowed hard and looked up again, Lestrade was looking at him with a look of sympathy. He hated that look.   
  
He turned and walked, Lestrade with him.   
  
John was laying on the bed looking through the window, while his hand clenched and unclenched in fists as he desperately tried to control his tremor.   
  
He turned to look at Sherlock and smiled, sitting up.   
  
Sherlock returned the smile, knowing that this was  _wrong,_ that he wasn't supposed to be close to John, but John had asked him to visit him, how on earth could he say no?   
  
"I thought you weren't coming", John said, staring at him fixedly, they looked at each other silently for a long time, and while they did, Sherlock couldn't help but realise that they used to do that a lot. Before,  _before._   
  
Greg walked into the room, so John turned to look at him. Greg frowned at John, and stared at him for a while, tilting his head to the side, as if he was still wondering how it was possible for John to have done such thing.   
  
John raised an eyebrow, looking considerably awkward, so Greg cleared his throat and shook his thoughts away. "John!", he exclaimed. "Just wanted to check on you, see how you were feeling."   
  
John smiled and nodded. "I'm- good, yeah. Better than yesterday, certainly. Hoping I could get ditched out of here soon, this is too boring and I've got work to do."   
  
Greg nodded and the three of them fell silent. John's attention went back to Sherlock who was decidedly not staring at him but looking fixedly to the ground, unblinking. Lestrade was staring at John, hoping perhaps John would  _remember,_ still not quite believing the story.   
  
The silence stretched for too long, so Greg decided it was up to him to break it. "Well, I just wanted to make sure you were fine, I wish I could stay, but I've got a lot of work.", he turned to Sherlock, who kept looking at the floor, "I'll let you know if I find anything of interest."   
  
Sherlock nodded and Lestrade waved a hand at John and walked away.   
  
"He looks a bit off", John said.   
  
Sherlock turned to look up but not facing John. "Hmm?", he asked feeling a bit lost, he was thinking and he had no idea what John was talking about.   
  
"Lestrade, he looks a bit... Weird."   
  
"Yes, well, he acts like that whenever Scotland Yard is clueless. Which is always."   
  
John grinned and Sherlock sat on the chair in front of him, unable to erase the little smile drawing in his face.   
  
"Are you really feeling better?", he asked softly, once he had seated.   
  
John nodded. "Yes. I still don't know what was up with that headache, but now it's not so intense."   
  
"I'm sorry." Oh so many things he wanted to apologise for, but he wouldn't get the chance now, it'd be completely pointless.   
  
John shrugged. "It's fine. I'm just a bit- worried."   
  
"You'll get better, you overworked yourself too much."   
  
"It came back last night."   
  
Sherlock looked up, John had spoken lowly, as if he didn't want to be heard, as if he was terrified and not very sure if he really could trust Sherlock. "What?", he asked, rising his eyebrow.   
  
"Last night...", he looked down,"when I was texting you, I couldn't fall asleep because my head was hurting too much."   
  
_When I was texting you._   
  
Sherlock couldn't do this, he couldn't keep hurting John, he had been hurting John for almost two years, he was making it worse, and he had to walk away, he had to walk away, before it was too late, before it was even harder. He swallowed, opened his mouth and then closed it, narrowing his eyes while he stared at John.   
  
John looked at him and tilted his head to the side, looking back at Sherlock, looking confused.   
  
"Are you okay, hm...", he hesitated, "Sherlock?"   
  
Sherlock.   
  
_Sherlock_ .   
  
It was the first time John said that name in a long while, a very long while.   
  
He remembered the last time.   
  
_Goodbye, John._   
  
_No, don't. SHERLOCK!_   
  
He heard it, while he fell, he heard the voice, calling desperately, but he had other things to focus on, he had more important matters to pay attention to.   
  
He started trembling, why was he trembling? He wasn't near the rooftop, John wasn't looking up to him, right next to the ambulance station, he was right in front of him, looking at him, saying his name, how could just one simple word have such a huge effect on him?   
  
The problem was not the word, everybody had said his name, in a thousand different contexts.   
  
The problem was  _who_ was saying it.   
  
The man he had come to care about most in the world. The man who now had absolutely no clue of how  _important_ he was, of how much he  _mattered,_ of how much Sherlock  _cared._ He was sitting on a bed thinking that he was useless, that he no longer could save anyone, that his life was worthless since he received that bullet in Afghanistan.   
  
How?   
  
How could he not see?, how could he stare into Sherlock's eyes and not realise that he isn't useless? That he is the only person in the world capable of saving Sherlock Holmes, more than once, actually? How could he not see? How could he not realise? How could he keep the Browning on the table right next to his bed?   
  
The deduction hit Sherlock like a stone:  _he sleeps with the Browning next to him. My Browning._   
  
_He wants to die._   
  
_He still thinks about it._   
  
_No._   
  
_This is my fault._   
  
"Sherlock... Mr Holmes!", the voice brought him out of his thoughts. He looked up and focused on John, looking at him, examining him, watching carefully, worrying, somehow still worrying for him, because that what John Watson was, a caretaker. And Sherlock had been so lucky, of all the people he could ever find in his life, to have found a caretaker, most of all, that the caretaker called him his  _friend._   
  
"Yes?"   
  
"Are you feeling well? You haven't replied in...five minutes."   
  
Sherlock shook his thoughts away and frowned. "Yes. Yes I'm fine. I- just- John, Dr. Watson", he corrected himself. "I just remembered, I have something to do. A case. I've got to work. I've got to go. Murder."   
  
John frowned. "What? Can I help?"   
  
"No. You can't. Just rest."   
  
"I'M TIRED OF RESTING GOD DAMNIT!", he yelled out of nowhere, his expression shifting completely, showing rage.   
  
"I can't help", Sherlock replied trying to sound as cold as possible.   
  
John, surprisingly enough,  _whispered._ "Yes, yes you can."   
  
"No", Sherlock said seriously, shaking his head.   
  
"Sherlock... Mr. Holmes", John said swallowing and looking fixedly at Sherlock. He was clenching and unclenching his left hand, but the tremor was making itself more and more noticeable. "I'm dying of boredom here, I  _need_ something to do and so far the most interesting thing I've done was talking to you. Please,  _please_ help me."   
  
Sherlock looked at him for a while, it took all of his will, but eventually he managed to look away, he grabbed his coat and put it on. "I'm sorry, Dr. Watson, I'm afraid I won't be of help. Goodbye."   
  
Sherlock opened the door of John's room and managed to hear a "Sherlock, wait!", before he closed it behind him. As soon as he heard the door clicking shut, he leaned against it and closed his eyes. It had been harder than he thought, John was asking for his help and he refused and abandoned him. But he would never be of help, from now on he would never be of help to John Watson. Actually, now that he thought about it, he had  _never_ been of help to John, only destroyed him more, broke him more.   
  
Thank God John didn't remember anymore, because if he did, he would really,  _really_ hate Sherlock. And he deserved it.   
  
He dragged a deep breath and walked away.   
  
_*******_   
  
_How was the case?_   
  
Sherlock read the message while he sat on his chair, his hands tucked below his face. He hadn't gone to Scotland Yard, obviously, he had gone back to 221B and sat there, he didn't know how long he'd been there, stuck in his mind, bringing back old memories.   
  
He read it again. And again. And again.   
  
He wouldn't reply. He shouldn't.   
  
He locked the phone and put it back over the table. He tried very very hard to go back to his Mind Palace, but he couldn't, he couldn't stop thinking about the message.   
  
The phone sounded again _._   
  
_Sherlock?_   
  
And again.   
  
_I mean, Mr Holmes_ .   
  
And again.   
  
_Damn it, I don't even know how to refer to you anymore_ .   
  
Sherlock locked his phone again and closed his eyes. The yearning to reply to the message was too urgent, too big, it felt like when he needed to shoot up, it was such a deep need, it was too hard to resist to it, but he had to.   
  
Around ten minutes later, the phone chimed again.   
  
_Did I do something wrong?_   
  
Sherlock dragged a deep breath.  _No, I did something wrong. I did everything wrong._   
  
_Sherlock._   
  
Sherlock felt a chill running all over his body.   
  
_Are you okay?_   
  
Sherlock wanted to yell at John, to tell him to stop caring about him, to stop making it all more and more difficult, John shouldn't care anymore, John didn't have the right to care anymore, John had to stop this, Sherlock had to stop this, how could he stop this?   
  
He replied.   
  
_I'm sorry. -SH._   
  
The reply came almost immediately.   
  
_Sorry? What for?_   
  
Sherlock didn't reply. He just needed John to know he really was sorry. That was all.   
  
_Damn it, Sherlock, stop doing this! What happened?_   
  
_Sherlock?_   
  
_Mr Holmes?_   
  
_..._   
  
_Good night then, I guess._   
  
_Good night, John. -SH._


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock spent the next three days deliberately ignoring everyone and everything around him, closed in his Mind Palace. Although not really, no, he wasn't. He couldn't find in himself the focus to go to his Mind Palace, he was tired.   
  
He couldn't remember when was the last time he had eaten so he occasionally went to the kitchen and made himself a cuppa and ate half a toast. It continued like that over and over and over.   
  
People might say he was depressed. Thankfully people didn't care for him anymore.   
  
Oh well, except for a few exceptions. Mrs Hudson came over to check on him, she made sure to open the windows and tried to clean a bit of the mess around 221B. She didn't say a word. She just stared at Sherlock for a while, Sherlock pretended he didn't notice and kept his eyes closed and his hands tucked below his chin. Then she would just walk away and he would sigh in relief.   
  
He received texts and calls, but he didn't answer them. He didn't even look to his phone, it would make things more difficult, so he just ignored the sounds and desperately told his mind that it  _wasn't_ John texting and it wasn't John calling _._   
  
On the third day, he heard some footsteps coming up on the stairs, heavier than Mrs Hudson, heavier than Lestrade's,  _heavier than John's -don't be ridiculous-_ and Mycroft appeared on the door moments later.   
  
Sherlock opened his eyes, looked at his brother standing in front of him and rolled them. "What are you doing here?"   
  
Mycroft shrugged. "Just wanted to check on my little brother. Is it really so strange?"   
  
"Yes. Yes it is."   
  
"Sherlock...", Mycroft said looking down.   
  
"No", Sherlock replied immediately, he knew where this conversation was going to.   
  
"What was I going to say?"   
  
"You were going to talk to me about John Watson and make me talk to him or some nonsense like that, and the answer is no, Mycroft, I won't."   
  
Mycroft looked around the living room, his expression unreadable until his eyes fixed on his brother again. "Well clearly you're managing great without his help -he said sarcastically- but I think it would be advisable for you to keep in contact with him."   
  
"Clearly I'm managing. Therefore no need to keep in contact."   
  
"I have information about him", Mycroft said.   
  
_Tell me, please._ "I'm not interested."   
  
Mycroft raised his eyebrows and stared at Sherlock for a while, he could tell Sherlock was lying, it was so obvious that even Scotland Yard would be able to see it.   
  
Mycroft tapped his umbrella on the floor. "Alright, then", he said looking down.   
  
"Just-", Sherlock said in a second of weakness, closing his eyes and scolding himself silently for being so stupid.   
  
Mycroft looked up to him.   
  
"Is he- is everything, he's fine, isn't he?"   
  
"Physically yes. Yes he is."   
  
Sherlock nodded, tucked his hands below his chin and remained silent.   
  
"Sherlock."   
  
"No."   
  
"Sherlock..."   
  
"What?", Sherlock said annoyed. "What are you still doing here?"   
  
"Just- if anything happens. Promise me you'll make a list."   
  
"A list? What for?", Sherlock asked knitting his eyebrows but he knew exactly what Mycroft meant.   
  
"Just promise me. I'll keep an eye on John Watson until you see reason and you talk to him."   
  
"Yes."   
  
"Yes?"   
  
"Yes, I'll make a list. Goodbye Mycroft."   
  
********   
  
Sherlock remained still for two more days. He couldn't find in himself, the strength to stand up and do something. Even the idea of trying drugs seemed to have lost its appeal. He looked for it, but there was no energy left, he felt as if all of it had been drained from his body since the moment that he had been drained from John's memory.   
  
He checked his phone as soon as Mycroft left. Three missed calls from his brother, two from Lestrade,  _eight messages from John._   
  
He didn't open them.   
  
Last one was from yesterday.   
  
He tucked his phone in his pocket and closed his eyes once again.   
  
Footsteps coming upstairs woke him up. He felt a bit startled and confused, his mind had been wandering around so many places and for a moment he had forgotten that he was alone at 221B, alone, alone, alone. Just for a moment.   
  
Lestrade appeared.   
  
"Why weren't you answering your bloody phone?"   
  
Sherlock shrugged. "What for?"   
  
"We've identified the body of the girl and we're trying to look for possible connections to suspects."   
  
"Then what do you need me for?"   
  
"We want you to interrogate them."   
  
Sherlock kept his eyes closed and his posture still. "No."   
  
"No?", Lestrade asked confused.   
  
"No, detective inspector, I won't feed your mediocrity and laziness. You are perfectly capable of doing it by yourself and I already gave you the clues to do so. The answer is no."   
  
Lestrade stared in silence. Finally, he moved and sat on the arm of the couch. "Sherlock...are you...are you alright?"   
  
"Perfectly."   
  
"Have you talked to John?", Greg asked looking down.   
  
"What for?"   
  
"You need him", Lestrade said seriously.   
  
Sherlock swallowed. "I really, really don't. And he doesn't need me either. I don't understand why everybody seems thrilled with the idea of me talking to him. There's no need to do so, he's fine without me, he  _wants_ to be without me, why should I feel otherwise?"   
  
"I checked on him two days ago, you know? He was allowed to leave the hospital that day and I wanted to see how he was. He asked me about you, asked if I knew how you were. He told me he was worried, that you weren't replying any of his messages. I know you better of course, so I told him I knew nothing and assumed you were just avoiding him."   
  
Sherlock shrugged, shaking his thoughts away.  _He asked about me. He was worried about me. He wanted to know how I was. -Irrelevant._ "So?", he asked coldly.   
  
Lestrade stared at him for a while. "So, if John wouldn't want to talk to you, he wouldn't be asking for you. Think it over, Sherlock. He didn't just decide to erase you from his life because he felt like it. He did it because it seemed unbearable to carry on living like that. I got to see him and-"   
  
"Why don't you mind your own business, Lestrade?", Sherlock said, cutting him off. Lestrade went silent immediately. "Why don't you go and solve a murder (as you should be doing) instead of trying to control my life?", Sherlock said sharply.   
  
Lestrade looked down, knowing that he might have said too much, but Sherlock needed to know. He nodded. "That's what I'll do. But do talk to John."   
  
"No."   
  
"Sherlock..."   
  
"No. I won't."   
  
Lestrade sighed, knowing that there was no way to make Sherlock change his mind, he looked at Sherlock for a moment, and finally looked away. "Fine. I'll let you know what happens with the interrogations."   
  
Sherlock closed his eyes. "Hmmm, not interested."   
  
"You can't spend the rest of your life tucked in that couch, you know that, don't you?", Lestrade tried once again to make Sherlock see some reason.   
  
Sherlock kept his eyes closed and joined his hands below his chin. "See your way out, Lestrade."   
  
Lestrade nodded slowly and walked away, feeling a bit stressed. He disliked seeing both John and Sherlock so clearly desperate for one another but not doing anything about it. They needed each other, they needed the excitement, the danger, they needed to stop being lonely, yet they would never dare to admit it. He sighed as he closed the door of 221B, thinking it had been silly ever considering that this would be back to normal after Sherlock's return. A year and a half had passed, and everything had completely changed.   
  
********   
  
Sherlock had been sprawled in that couch for exactly seven days and ten hours. He didn't look at his phone, he didn't feel anything, not hunger, nor tiredness, nor need for adrenaline. Nothing. He felt somehow empty, and he would never admit it but he was starting to get worried about it.   
  
Surprisingly enough, Lestrade's words were still stuck in Sherlock's mind: he couldn't stay like that forever. Yes, John had erased him from his mind and it was too hard for him, even harder to stay away from him knowing he was a time bomb for John, but John had moved on with his life, and so should he. He couldn't spend the rest of his life pining over John, no, now what he needed was to save it as a wonderful memory, as the very best of times, and then move on.   
  
Because alone was what he had in the end, wasn't it?   
  
He stood up and grabbed his violin. It was a start. At least now he was standing up. He placed it below his chin, tenderly grabbed the bow, and started playing softly. He didn't even know what he was playing, he just allowed his wrist to move freely, to compose what it wanted to, to express what he was feeling deeply and with intensity.   
  
He lost track of how long he stood there, completely still except for his right hand, which was still moving as if it was apart from that same body.   
  
He was so immersed in thoughts that he didn't hear the creak of the footsteps as someone climbed them.   
  
Mrs Hudson appeared on the door, knocking lightly, pulling Sherlock out of his reverie.   
  
"Not now, Mrs Hudson", Sherlock replied, longing to keep playing, wanting to keep playing forever.   
  
Mrs Hudson cleared her throat and spoke up. "You've got a visitor, Sherlock."   
  
Sherlock kept moving his bow relentlessly, and managed to roll his eyes. "I told you, I'm not receiving clients-"   
  
"Well, thankfully I'm not a client", a voice said from behind Mrs Hudson.   
  
Sherlock froze. His bow stopped in the middle of the air. He stood still for a moment, and then the bow went down slowly. He dragged a deep breath and turned, John Watson was standing on the entrance of the flat.   
  
Mrs Hudson beamed with excitement, when her eyes met Sherlock's she reacted and simply said, "Oh, I left the stove on...", and walked away.   
  
Sherlock placed the violin down and nodded at John. "Dr. Watson", he said politely.   
  
"Didn't know you played the violin", John said walking into the living room.   
  
_Yes you did._ "Helps me to think", he said and it sounded a bit sharper than he intended to.   
  
 John nodded and an awkward silence fell into both of them. It had never happened before, they used to have these long moments of silence, but they were never uncomfortable or awkward. That was definitely not a good sign.   
  
It didn't make sense, John Watson shouldn't be there, standing in front of him. He walked towards his chair and took a seat, but didn't invite John to take his, no longer  _his_ chair. "What are you doing here?", he asked.   
  
John didn't seem affected by Sherlock's attitude and shrugged. "Just wanted to check on you. See how you were, you weren't replying the messages and I grew worried-"   
  
"Well I'm perfectly fine, doctor", Sherlock cut him off.   
  
John went silent. He looked at Sherlock fixedly, as if trying to check that he was fine by himself. Sherlock returned the stare, an looked at John coldly.   
  
John looked down an shook his head, smiling. Sherlock had come to recognise that smile and he  _hated_ it. "Yeah, right. I should have gotten the cue from your messages, I just thought- Sorry for bothering you, Mr. Holmes, I'm glad you're doing fine", John said turning his back at Sherlock.   
  
Sherlock felt bad almost immediately. If whatever this was, their friendship if there still was such thing, was going to end, he didn't want it to end so abruptly. His voice made John stop right below the doorframe. "How have you been feeling, Dr. Watson?"   
  
John clenched the fist of his left hand and turned back to Sherlock, nodding and doing a poor attempt at a smile. "Yeah, not bad. Not bad", he looked down and cleared his throat.   
  
_Lying._   
  
"And your headaches?"   
  
John raised his eyebrows and replied, "gone. I'm back at the E.R, and yes, it's all fine."   
  
_Gone._   
  
Sherlock nodded. "I'm glad."   
  
Another awkward silence and Sherlock knew that would be it.   
  
John rubbed his head. "Listen, I've got to go, but it was good to see you're doing good. I'll- um- I- Goodbye, Mr. Holmes."   
  
Sherlock stood up and grabbed his violin, not saying goodbye to John. It would be hateful, saying goodbye. So he hoped his song would say more than words.   
  
When he turned again, John was gone.   
  
*******   
  
A week passed by. Sherlock didn't want to know anything about cases, anything about John, he just laid on the couch for hours and hours, and he felt  _exhausted._ It didn't make sense, he had been doing nothing, literally nothing.   
  
Well, not nothing. He had been renewing John's side of his mind palace. He carefully stored, classified and saved in a room each of John's memories, which were a lot. It took him a lot of time, going after every memory, since the very beginning to the very end.   
  
Why was he exhausted then?   
  
John sent two other messages that had went unread. He didn't want any kind of attachment to John, not even via IM. Melissa had said that the headaches were temporary, that after a while they'd pass, but what if they didn't? What if it only got worse and worse? He would never forgive himself for it. So he would have to stay away from John. The only viable solution.   
  
His phone chimed for the eleventh time that day and Sherlock was getting so tired of ignoring it that he finally decided to pick it up. For the eleventh time that day, it was Lestrade.   
  
"One would assume that after ignoring ten calls, people would realise  that said calls are not wanted, but apparently not the case, Lestrade."   
  
Lestrade sounded a little out of breath. "Where the bloody hell are you, Sherlock?"   
  
"Where do you think? Where else could I possibly be? What do you want?"   
  
"There was another one."   
  
Sherlock sat up. "Another death?"   
  
"Yes. Similar circumstances, but quite a different person. The MO remains the same."   
  
Sherlock didn't want to. But Sherlock wanted to. But he didn't want to. He considered his options, solving crimes lacked the excitement when there was no one to say 'amazing!' after he delivered one of his deductions. But the other option was staying at his flat, doing nothing but going through the John wing in his mind palace and feeling even more miserable.   
  
No, not miserable. He was Sherlock Holmes. He'd never feel miserable.   
  
Feeling more... Whatever it was he was feeling.   
  
He closed his eyes and nodded. "Where is it?"   
  
He could almost sense Lestrade's smile of relief when he replied with the address.   
  
"I'll be there."   
  
He stood up, took a quick shower and put his suit on, and it seemed as if nothing had changed.   
*******   
  
Sherlock arrived to the crime scene, putting his coat collar up and taking his gloves off.   
  
He examined the crime scene. It looked quite similar to the previous one, but something was different, although Sherlock couldn't tell what it was. He ignored the policemen in the area and stopped in front of Lestrade. There was blood everywhere.   
  
"Frank Lloyd. 37, stabbed on the back several times. He bled to death."   
  
Sherlock leaned closer and examined the body carefully. Unlike the previous girl, it didn't seem like the man belonged to the LGBTI community, he had a wedding ring which looked older than ten years, before civil unions were legal. So, married to a woman. Or divorced. Probably recently divorced but not wanting to accept it, since he hadn't polished the jewellery yet still used it without taking it off, so it was her choice and he was trying to wrap his mind around it. It could have been her, maybe a passionate crime? Except for...   
  
Except for the incredible force with which the stabbing had been made. It was very similar to the way the student had been stabbed, with force but without showing any signs of resistance. It was an ugly scene, he had been stabbed 13 times. The diagonal patterns of stabbing showed that the man was taller than the victim, so the killer, whoever he was, was very, very tall.   
  
Sherlock had no doubt this was the same killer of the student. A serial killer, he couldn't help but get excited.   
  
It was interesting, making his brain work again. He would have to get used to this, to his life before John Watson walked into it, go back to the old times when alone was all he had.   
  
It was difficult, going back, having experienced how it had been before, he now longed for  _not_ being alone, but nobody should know that.   
  
"The victim was-", Sherlock started throwing his deductions.   
  
"Sorry I'm late", someone walked into the scene, interrupting him. "I had to finish my shift so... What do we have here?"   
  
All the heads turned and all the eyes fixed on John Watson, examining him carefully, Sherlock turned and stared at him, his face giving nothing away.   
  
John looked at the faces around him and raised an eyebrow. "Sorry, did I interrupt something?", he asked ignoring Sherlock's presence completely.   
  
Greg blinked and suddenly tried to break the ice. "Sherlock was just going to tell us what he found."   
  
"Oh", John said, clearly not amused nor very expectant about Sherlock's speech.   
  
He looked at Sherlock defiantly and their eyes met.   
  
"Sherlock...", Greg finally said after a long moment of silence.   
  
Sherlock broke the gaze and cleared his throat. "Right... The- the victim recently went through a divorce, judging by the state of his wedding ring and the fact that he hasn't taken it off. Probably her choice, not his. He's an outdoor worker, since his cell phone is water proof. His outfit tells us everything we need to know: rigid posture, broad back, olive green: he used to be in the army, probably served on a relatively recent war. My first guess would be the gulf war. Being a veteran didn't help his income and he was forced to work in order to get more money so he decided to do what he's good at: security guard.   
  
The killer was a man, according to the diagonal patter of the stabbing and the force used for it. Indicates rage or revenge. Probably rage, because the other murder had the same characteristics. There is no sign of forcing the door, so just like in the other case, there must have been some kind of acquaintance between the victim and the perpetrator."   
  
John looked at Sherlock throughout his whole speech. When Sherlock finally finished it, he couldn't help but exclaim. "Brilliant!"   
  
_Brilliant._   
  
It had been so long.   
  
He'd heard it before, when he had been gone. Those were the kind of words he always associated with memories of John Watson, it was comforting somehow, going back to a time when he was actually  _accepted_ for being himself.   
  
And here he was, in front of a John Watson who has no idea that he had already expressed his admiration in every variant of the English language.   
  
Still, that didn't mean that Sherlock didn't want to hear it.   
  
Still, that didn't mean that Sherlock wasn't being bombarded by memories and memories and memories, all of them associated with just that one word.   
  
Extraordinary, the effect that John Watson had in his mind.   
  
He blinked but didn't reply to John, who was still staring at him as if he was the sun himself, and he absolutely hated that.   
  
Sherlock sighed and turned to look at Greg. "Lestrade, may I have a word with you?"   
  
Lestrade examined the silent exchange of looks between the detective and the doctor silently. When Sherlock mentioned him, he cleared his throat and nodded, "yes, sure."   
  
They walked aside, a bit away from John and the rest of the policemen. Once they were at a safe enough distance, Sherlock crossed his arms. "Could you explain to me what is he doing here?"   
  
"I invited him to the case. Maybe seeing you in your own environment would ring a bell on his brain. Plus, he was dying of boredom. You have to understand, for someone who's used to life with you, not having that life turns into a very dangerous disadvantage."   
  
"I didn't ask you to invite him", Sherlock replied stubbornly.   
  
"It was... A surprise", Lestrade said awkwardly.   
  
"A surprise?", Sherlock asked with indignation. "And what? You expected me to bounce around like a puppy when I saw him walking in?"   
  
Lestrade shrugged. "I don't know! Maybe it would be like the old times!"   
  
"Stop poking your nose around where you shouldn't and focus on the cases, Lestrade."   
  
John walked towards them and cleaned his throat loudly. "Excuse me", he said with an awkward smile, "I'm clearly not wanted here so I'll better be off", he turned to look at Sherlock, "my apologies."   
  
Sherlock shook his head and turned to look at Lestrade. He couldn't do this, he couldn't just work on a case with John, it wasn't going to work, he'd be constantly distracted by old memories and that wasn't going to do any good to anyone. But Lestrade was right, completely right, John needed this, he needed the excitement, the adventure.   
  
He turned to look at John, dragged a deep breath and replied, "no need to worry, Dr. Watson. You won't leave, I will." He looked at Greg, "Lestrade, I'm off the case."   
  
And without further ado, he walked away.


	12. Chapter 12

"Yeah, he's always like that", Lestrade replied to John's surprised look. He frowned because John  _should_ know that. Maybe he does. He just doesn't remember.   
  
John sighed and followed Sherlock out of the room, walking in a rush to catch him.   
  
"Sherlock!", he yelled, distinguishing the detective's silhouette getting lost in the end of the hallway. Sherlock didn't stop nor slow down his pace, forcing John to walk even faster.   
  
He finally reached him and in an attempt to stop him, yanked him forcefully by the coat. Sherlock stopped and turned to look at him, raising an enquiring eyebrow, his expression dead serious.   
  
John breathed a bit to calm himself down. After a second, he clenched his jaw and looked. "Would you please explain me what the bloody hell is your problem with me?"   
  
Sherlock straightened his back and narrowed his eyes. "I have no idea what you're talking about."   
  
"The hell you do!", stop acting like a toddler and tell me what the problem is. Do you want me to go?", John asked defiantly.   
  
"That would be great. Thank you."   
  
"Well, tough! I'm not going anywhere. And neither are you until you explain me what is wrong."   
  
"There's nothing wrong! Everything's fine!"   
  
"Then why on earth are you leaving the damn case?", John asked, looking annoyed.   
  
"It's dull, boring, predictable! A stupid murder with an even more stupid solution!", Sherlock said recalling a time, some years ago, when he had said that caring for people wouldn't save them so he didn't make that mistake. It had been quite effective to put John down, perhaps this would drive him away, finally.   
  
Not that he wanted do.   
  
But he had to.   
  
John's mouth opened. "Excuse me? Dull? Sherlock, people are dying!", John said, almost shouting.   
  
"As I said, boring."   
  
John looked down, shook his head and laughed, that terrifying laugh. "Fine. Fine. Do whatever you please. If you excuse me, I'll be trying to help on the case, because there are other people's lives at stake, and unlike you, I don't find that boring at all."   
  
"Great."   
  
"Great", John said turning his back to him, but just as he started to walk away, he came back. "Just one more question", he said a bit hesitantly.   
  
"Yes?"   
  
"What made you like this?"   
  
_You._   
  
Sherlock didn't reply. He turned his back to John and walked away from the scene.   
  
That was a good way of saying goodbye, wasn't it? It was the perfect closure for Sherlock. Except it wasn't, it really really wasn't. Sherlock expected more, he always expected more.   
  
And as always, he had to settle with less.   
  
*******   
  
It really was just a matter of time until Lestrade would feel at a loss with the case and beg for Sherlock's return. Sherlock knew it.   
  
In this case, it had been eight days. More than Sherlock thought. Eight days without hearing from Lestrade, from the crime,  _from John._   
  
Lestrade climbed up the stairs hesitantly. Finally, he arrived to the flat. Sherlock had just placed down his violin, he had been composing, although he didn't remember quite well what he was playing.   
  
"Yes, Lestrade?", Sherlock asked rolling his eyes.   
  
Lestrade cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his head. "There's been another."   
  
"I'm off the case."   
  
"Damn it, Sherlock, don't you think I know that? Still, I need your help. We need your help. We are clueless."   
  
"How unusual."   
  
"Oi!", Lestrade pointed a finger at him. "Sherlock, please."   
  
"Is John in the case?", Sherlock asked, trying to sound nonchalant.   
  
Greg sighed and closed his eyes. "This victim is also very different from the previous ones-"   
  
"Is John in the case?", Sherlock interrupted him.   
  
"Yes."   
  
"Then no", Sherlock said simply.   
  
"Sherlock...", Lestrade insisted.   
  
Sherlock, who had been facing the window, turned and looked at Lestrade. "Give me one valid reason why I should go there."   
  
"Because he needs you." Lestrade replied convicingly.   
  
"He doesn't."   
  
"He keeps asking me about you, you know?"   
  
"I doubt it", Sherlock said crossing his arms.   
  
Lestrade pulled out his phone and showed Sherlock the text messages he'd received yesterday from John:   
  
_Greg, do you know anything about Sherlock?_   
  
**No, haven't talked to him. Maybe try texting him?**   
  
_He won't reply._   
  
**He always replies.**   
  
**How about a call?**   
  
_I guess he wouldn't reply to that one either._   
  
**He prefers to text.**   
  
_I imagined._   
  
Why on earth did John care? Sherlock had tried to push him apart but he still cared somehow? why? that wasn't supposed to happen, they had  _just met._ At least from John's point of view.   
  
This didn't make sense.   
  
After all this time, John Watson remained being a mystery.   
  
Sherlock could never say no to mysteries.   
  
He would discover why, and then he'd find a way to be apart from John.   
  
He sighed and rolled his eyes again at Lestrade, walking past him. "Lead the way, detective inspector."   
  
Lestrade managed a side smile, put his phone back in his pocket and walked away, followed by Sherlock.   
  
*******   
  
When they arrived to the crime scene (a boarding school) and found the victim (a teacher), John was already examining the body. He looked so professional, so brilliant, so doctor-like, that Sherlock had to stop for a moment to contemplate him. He looked different, stronger, invincible, better.   
  
John was talking about the woman's possible struggle with alcoholism when his head shot up to meet Sherlock's insistent eyes. He stood up immediately.   
  
Sherlock stared at him silently for a while. "Please continue", he said seriously.   
  
John looked down as if he had forgotten completely about what he'd been talking about. When he bent he cleared his throat and muttered, "...right", he examined her body closely, and so did Sherlock, well as closely as he could without invading John's space.   
  
She had been stabbed, forcefully, several times. Died of blood loss.   
  
John bent down to take an even closer look at her. In that position, Sherlock's view was blocked by John's head. He rolled his eyes and walked a bit away from John and the victim.   
  
John moved back and frowned. "Hmmm, unusual."   
  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "What is?"   
  
John didn't meet Sherlock's eyes to reply. "There is a scar on the nape of her neck, see? but it's hidden behind the hairline. I can't quite make out what it could have been made with, I know most of the instruments to perform a surgery on the brain and they do not have that shape, nor could they have just been caused by a blunt object. It's weird."   
  
Sherlock leaned closer on the other side of the victim and bent to take a better look at it, completely ignoring the closeness with John of course. He tilted his head to the side, unable to find the scar, roaming his fingers through the woman's short hair. John realised that Sherlock couldn't find it and tried to find it again. Their fingers brushed lightly.   
  
And Sherlock couldn't understand how a simple brush of fingers was enough to tear him apart completely, piece by piece. He shivered beneath John's light touch.   
  
"Here it is", John said, his voice tone low.   
  
Sherlock frowned. "Hmmm, quite right. Hadn't seen it before either."   
  
It really was an unusual shape. The scar looked more like the cartoon of a bacteria than like a real scar.   
  
John suddenly stood up and pointed a finger at Lestrade, "what if this is the unifying factor?", he asked excitedly.   
  
Lestrade frowned. "Sorry?"   
  
"The one thing they have in common! the scar!"   
  
Lestrade's frown deepened.   
  
Sherlock stood up and raised an eyebrow at John. "A scar?  _That's_ the one thing the victims might have in common? That's absurd."   
  
"Yeah but what if it isn't? It is  _not_ a normal scar, I can tell, I'm a bloody doctor!"   
  
"That doesn't tell us anything whatsoever", Sherlock said stubbornly.   
  
John stared at him defiantly. "It tells  _us_ that I have a better knowledge of the body than you. Also that I can break every bone in your body while naming them."   
  
Sherlock's mouth snapped shut. He had nothing to reply to that comeback. And he was Mr. Punchline, or John had called him so long time ago.   
  
Long time ago.   
  
"Fine, fine girls. If I confirm or deny this ehm... theory, will you stop bickering like an old married couple?", Lestrade asked trying to stifle a laugh.   
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but John nodded.   
  
Lestrade phoned Molly.   
  
While Lestrade talked to Molly, John stared at Sherlock. Sherlock pretended not to have noticed and tried to act as if nothing was happening but he could literally feel John's eyes burying, mixing, and merging with every single one of the cells of his body. He swallowed.   
  
Lestrade came into the room, his mouth agape. "It matches."   
  
Sherlock's eyes widened and his expression changed completely. "What?"   
  
"I just talked to Molly, asked her to check on the other victim and it turns out, he- uh- he has the same scar in the same place. We- we've found a common factor, apparently."   
  
John smiled.   
  
Sherlock exclaimed before he could stop himself. "That was amazing."   
  
John turned to look at him and his mouth opened in surprise. A second later, he cleared his throat. "You think so?"   
  
Sherlock recalled an old memory, a lot of time ago, when he was the one saying John's words and John was saying Sherlock's. "Yes. It was quite extraordinary."   
  
" _It's not what people normally say", was what Sherlock had replied. And if he could place a moment, an exact moment when he felt that this was different, that this was something, was right in that second._   
  
_John had come to his life to stay. Because he was different._   
  
_Bad thing Sherlock hadn't come to John's life to stay._   
  
John side-smiled at him. "Thank you."   
  
"You're welcome, doctor", Sherlock said smiling at him.   
  
Lestrade cleared his throat and interrupted their silent conversation of staring. "...we still have to find out what it was made with."   
  
"Huh?", Sherlock said, turning towards him, feeling a bit lost.   
  
"Would you please take a look at the body?", Lestrade asked Sherlock. "See if you can find any reason at all for her to have that mark?"   
  
Sherlock bent over the body and examined it silently. John crouched right in front of him and all of the sudden he was focused and doctor-like. It was surprising, how he could completely change his manner when people were in danger.   
  
"37 to 40. Recently divorced, I'd say around two or three weeks ago. Abusive relationship. She made the choice and hadn't worn the ring ever since. English teacher from what I can see on the fingertips, they're still stained with dashboard marker, meaning it's a class where there's a lot of writing. She is left handed, so statistically more likely to be inclined towards creative arts. That and the fact she carries a book on her purse, a scratched and obviously overused book, she likes analysing them, so English teacher."   
  
"Brilliant!", John exclaimed naturally.   
  
Sherlock looked at him but tried not to acknowledge the words he'd said, he was terrified he might actually blush. "Which book is it by the way?"   
  
Lestrade turned to look at the purse, still laying on her desk. He examined the book carefully. "Crime and Punishment", he replied.   
  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Interesting", was all he said.   
  
Lestrade looked at Sherlock expectantly. "...so, any ideas about what could make that scar?"   
  
Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. "Not yet. But it's a relatively old scar, it wasn't made during the murder. Yet somehow it helped the murderer identify her. But why,  _why?"_ , he asked, talking aloud.   
  
He thought for a moment and sighed. "I need to think." He put his coat collar up and his gloves on. "Come, John", he said, out of custom.   
  
The room went silent.   
  
Greg stared at Sherlock with his mouth opened.   
  
It dawned on Sherlock: he messed up. He messed up really,  _really_ bad.   
  
John stared at him frozen in his spot, looking at Sherlock silently.   
  
It was too late to fix it now, he couldn't just say he had made a mistake, he would make a fool out of himself. He shouldn't have said that, but he couldn't help it, it came out of his mouth so naturally that Sherlock didn't even think about it before speaking.   
  
John blinked and cleared his throat. "Em- yeah, sure."   
  
Sherlock was terrified. Where the hell were they going? This wasn't something strangers said to each other, this was normal back when they were roommates, this was certainly crossing a line that they had blurred so many times before, but that now was sharply drawn between them.   
  
But. But.  _But._ John said yes. John Watson, having absolutely no idea of who this stupid, crazy man was, had said yes. He had said yes, over and over, and over, in a world that was full of "no's" for Sherlock. And here he was, standing in front of him with his stupid limp and his trembling hand and he was saying yes.   
  
 Sherlock walked out of the room trying to look nonchalant, knowing that John would follow him.   
  
John would always follow him, even though he didn't even know when he did it.   
  
*******   
  
"Where are we going?", John asked curiously once they were sitting in the cab. The cabbie was probably wondering the same thing.   
  
_Bloody good question._ "To your house", Sherlock replied, trying to fix what he had done wrong.   
  
John blinked at him. Certainly he was not expecting that. "To my house?", John repeated in disbelief.   
  
"Yes. I'm taking you to your house", Sherlock replied, looking out of the window. "So if you were so kind to tell the cabbie what your address is, it would certainly be appreciated."   
  
John cleared his throat and gave the cabbie his address, then his attention was directed towards Sherlock once again. "You're taking me to my house...?"   
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes. I've already told you that. Aren't doctors supposed to be smart?"   
  
John didn't seem offended by the question, and ignored it instead. "Alright let me phrase it better:  _why_ are you taking me to my house?"   
  
_I don't know either._ "I wanted to apologise", Sherlock said, trying to sound nonchalant, still looking out of the window.   
  
"Apologise?", John asked surprised, "what for?"   
  
Sherlock kept his gaze on the window but could feel John's eyes piercing into him, as if they were able to burn the areas where they fixed on. "For my attitude lately. Isn't this what people are supposed to do? Have a nice detail to apologise?"   
  
John sighed. "You could just... You know, have told me."   
  
"Told you what?"   
  
"That you were sorry", John shrugged. Sherlock could see it through the reflection of the glass.   
  
"I'm not sorry, nonetheless I had to apologise."   
  
"Oh, you're not sorry? Then don't apologise if you don't mean it."   
  
"I do mean it. But still, I'm not sorry", Sherlock replied stubbornly.   
  
John laughed softly, then his look turned more serious. "You could have at least asked. I didn't want to leave just yet."   
  
"Why not? Scotland Yard wasn't going to make any further progress on the investigation, it would be a complete waste of your time. You should thank me."   
  
John now really laughed and Sherlock missed that sound, he really did. He couldn't help the corners of his mouth from twitching up a little bit.   
  
"Apology accepted", John said after he stopped laughing.   
  
"Thank you", Sherlock replied feeling better, somehow relieved. He had been far too rude to John, but it was just because this wasn't supposed to be happening, they should be as far apart as possible, not sitting in a cab together. He wanted to avoid this from happening, but somehow the harder he tried, the more difficult to stay away from John.   
  
Still, John hadn't gotten any headache through this time they've spent by each other's side, so perhaps, perhaps they could go back to the old times.   
  
Impossible. Far too much forgotten history between them.   
  
"I don't understand", John said with a frown, deviating Sherlock from his thoughts. "Why were you acting like that?"   
  
_To protect you._ "I find it difficult to socialise", he admitted.   
  
"That doesn't excuse you from acting like a dick", John said seriously.   
  
"I know. But that's how I've always acted", Sherlock shrugged.   
  
"Well you shouldn't act like that. It drives people away."   
  
"I have absolutely no interest whatsoever in keeping people. Plus, it didn't drive you away."   
  
"No", John shook his head, "it did not."   
  
They remained silent for a long while, but it wasn't an uncomfortable silence, it was a good kind of silence. The good kind of silence he always found with John Watson.   
  
Finally, John broke the silence. "So I take it you don't have many friends."   
  
"I don't have friends. Dull", Sherlock said leaving the  _I just had one_ part off his statement.   
  
"That's absurd. Everyone deserves a friend."   
  
Sherlock finally turned to look at him. "John you're talking like a six-year old in the graveyard trying to get his partners to play the ball with him."   
  
John laughed. "Yeah, I guess you're right. Doesn't make it less true though."   
  
"Like I said, dull."   
  
John hesitated for a moment, looked down, then looked up. "So you don't have a girlfriend then?"   
  
_Oh I remember this one conversation._   
  
"Girlfriend, no. Not really my area", Sherlock replied, following the game.   
  
John stared at him thoughtfully. "Oh, so you have a boyfriend then?"   
  
"No", Sherlock replied sharply.   
  
"Oh...", John sat straight and licked his lips. "Good. You're unattached, just like me."   
  
"Yes. You're clearly unattached", Sherlock replied, keeping the  _I consider myself married to my work_ part off the statement, because it used to be true once, not anymore, not really.   
  
"Sorry?", John replied.   
  
"You have a psychosomatic limp and a trembling left hand, clearly you still have trust issues from Afghanistan. It's difficult to find a partner to keep up with your nightmares and the only lasting relationship you had since you came back from the war ended a long time ago. You have one night stands, but you can't seem to find intimacy with anyone, lest of all falling in love with them. So unattached, obviously."   
  
_If I didn't drive him away before, this certainly will._   
  
John stared at him silently, his face giving nothing away. "You're right", he said naturally. "I still don't understand how you manage to do that though, you seem to know my entire life."   
  
_I did._   
  
Sherlock shrugged. "I merely use my observation skills."   
  
"Extraordinary", John replied with a side-smile.   
  
Sherlock returned the smile. "Thank you, John."   
  
They stared at each other silently for a long time, not even daring to blink. Sherlock's mind was blank, completely focused on John's features, on John's trembling hand, on John's smile. John licked his lips once again, his eyes fixed on Sherlock.   
  
_Married to his work_ , Sherlock wondered over and over again while he was away if that one statement had changed everything. What if he hadn't said it? Would things had been different between them? Would John have erased him from his mind? This time he wasn't going to make that mistake again, because it wasn't true. He wasn't married to his work.   
  
Perhaps he should just try, just once, to let go... Perhaps he should close the distance between them, John's body sign was showing that he clearly wanted to, too, what if he did? What if he leaned forward and...   
  
"Mate, we're here", the cabbie said, clearing his throat and interrupting his thoughts.   
  
John blinked and tore his gaze apart from Sherlock. "Right. Right."   
  
Sherlock sat straight and closed his eyes, silently scolding himself for having such stupid, inappropriate,  _human_ thoughts.   
  
John opened the door and didn't look at Sherlock, "I guess I'll see you later, unless you decide to act all weird again."   
  
Sherlock smiled, "I wouldn't."   
  
"Right", John replied, still not making eye contact with him. "So, good night."   
  
"Good night, John."   
  
John nodded and closed the door. Sherlock sighed, his heart still racing while he focused on ignoring it. He looked at the cabbie. "To Baker Street, please."


	13. Chapter 13

_I realised I didn't get to thank you for the ride home._   
  
_So, thank you._   
  
Sherlock checked his mobile, feeling a bit in awe. He shouldn't reply, he should keep doing the same thing he had done before, ignore him and move on with his life, except he was already typing a reply. Except he had already sent it.   
  
_Nonsense. It was my way of apologising. -SH._   
  
Sherlock leaned in the couch, closing his eyes, tired after a long day.   
  
_I wasn't expecting a reply. So thank you for that too._   
  
_Are you home yet? Did everything go alright?_   
  
Why. Was. John. Caring? John wasn't supposed to care anymore and Sherlock hadn't given him any chance of doing it so whatsoever. Why was he doing this? Making everything harder?   
  
_You're welcome, I suppose. -SH_   
  
_Yes, I'm home. Everything went well -SH_   
  
_I'm glad._   
  
_Me too. Even though you didn't ask._   
  
_Doesn't mean I didn't care -SH._   
  
Sherlock regretted sending that response almost as soon as he did. He closed his eyes and locked his phone, putting it over the table. A minute later, it chimed, and it took all of Sherlock's control not to read John's response. He joined his fingers below his chin and thought, and thought and thought...   
  
He shouldn't have thought that in the cab. He shouldn't have thought about John in that way, about a John who barely knew him. He had never thought that before. Well, that was a lie. But he had never thought that before in front of John, and it was  _wrong._   
  
 But it felt so, so, so  _right._   
  
_Delete that thought._   
  
Sherlock tried to focus on other matters at hand and sunk into his mind palace, and thought and thought and thought...   
  
*******   
  
"Sherlock?", a voice whispered softly in his ear.   
  
Sherlock opened his eyes, startled. He sat up, a bit confused as he heard that voice. His mind palace had clearly played a trick with him because it couldn't be...   
  
John was standing in front of him, quirking an eyebrow at him. He turned his back, looking around the flat. "...I em, I thought you were sleeping, but then you just started talking."   
  
"Talking?", Sherlock asked even more confused.   
  
"...talking to me", John said, finally making eye contact with Sherlock.   
  
Sherlock swallowed. Why did he have to talk out loud whenever he was in his mind palace? "Oh?", was all he could say.   
  
A deep silence fell over them. Sherlock broke it. "What was I talking about?"   
  
"The murder. It- it was as if you were explaining it to me. Or to someone else named John, I suppose it could have been anybody", John said looking around again.   
  
"I don't know any other John."   
  
"Yeah. So, I woke you up, to see if everything was alright."   
  
"I wasn't sleeping, I didn't need to be woken up. I was in my mind palace", Sherlock said, standing up and going to sit in his chair. "What time is it?", he said looking through the window, it was dark outside. Had John come to visit him after he took him home? seemed a bit useless then, the cab ride.   
  
"6:30", John said, looking at his watch.   
  
"In the morning? why are you here so early?", Sherlock said casually, as if it was a perfectly natural thing for John to be sitting in his living room after erasing him from his mind.   
  
"Erm, no- in the afternoon", John said, frowning. "How long have you been there?"   
  
Sherlock shrugged. "Don't know."   
  
"You're wearing the same clothes from yesterday, are you there since last-  _hang on,_ mind palace?", John asked confused.   
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. This conversation was pointless. "Yes. Mind palace. It's a memory technique. I have stored in here-", he said pointing at his head, "every important fact I've ever known."   
  
John raised an eyebrow, amused. "And it's a palace..."   
  
"It's  _big!_ ", Sherlock replied stubbornly.   
  
John laughed, then he asked softly, as if he wasn't certain he could ask that question. "And what does it look like?"   
  
_Like our first case together._   
  
_Like the last memory which was erased from your mind._   
  
Sherlock blinked before replying. "Like I said, it's big."   
They stood silent for a while. John walked towards Sherlock, looked at the chair in front of him, and sat. And John was sitting in his chair and it was as if nothing had ever changed.   
  
"Why were you talking to me?", John asked, breaking the silence.   
  
Sherlock cleared his throat. "I like company when I'm thinking", his eyes roamed through the living room and settled on the fireplace. "Plus, Billy was not a suitable companion anymore."   
  
"Billy?", John asked confused.   
  
Sherlock pointed with his chin towards the fireplace. "Billy the skull. A friend of mine."   
  
John looked at him for a moment silently, surprised. "So I'm filling in for a skull?", he asked trying to look offended but failing completely at it.   
  
"Relax, you're doing fine", Sherlock said, smiling.   
  
John laughed too and Sherlock really, really missed those moments.   
  
John stood up and looked at Sherlock suspiciously. "When was the last time you ate?"   
  
Sherlock shrugged. "Don't know. Don't remember."   
  
"Thought you had stored in your palace every single fact."   
  
"Every single  _important_ fact!", Sherlock replied, huffing.   
  
John laughed a bit too and said naturally, "how about I order some takeaway?"   
  
Sherlock shrugged. "Do as you please, John. I'm not hungry anyway."   
  
John looked at him and suddenly his face changed from kind-easy going John, to serious-doctor John. "You need to eat something."   
  
"No, I don't."   
  
"You really, really do. Doctor's orders."   
  
Sherlock side smiled and stared fixedly at John before nodding. "Fine. Only a fool would argue with his doctor."   
  
John smiled back and called at a thai place nearby. Sherlock had no idea how John knew the phone number of a thai restaurant near Baker Street even though he lived on the other side of London. Perhaps that memory hadn't escaped from his mind.   
  
While they waited, John stood up from the chair and asked, "Shall I make some tea?"   
  
Sherlock nodded but didn't reply. John went to the kitchen, he roamed through the kitchen shelves.   
  
Sherlock looked at him. "The kettle is-"   
  
"Found it!", John said quickly, as if he had known all along where it was. Which didn't make sense of course, because John wasn't supposed to remember anything about 221B.   
  
John moved through the kitchen with ease, as if he had never left it in the first place. Sherlock stared at him in bemusement.   
  
John came back to sit in  _his_ chair, he offered Sherlock his cuppa and it was  _perfect._ Mrs Hudson made a delicious tea, and he loved waking up every morning to find his tea on the living room, but this  _this_ tasted like home, and it was a taste Sherlock didn't know he missed until now, he really, really longed for it. He hummed as he took a sip.   
  
"So, what are you doing here?", Sherlock asked as he placed his teacup on the plate.   
  
John looked down and cleared his throat, as if he hadn't been waiting for that question at all. "Um- I finished my shift at the clinic and I didn't want to go home yet so I decided to come and see if you had made any advance on the case."   
  
Right. The case. That was the only reason why John was there. It made sense, of course, perfect sense. Right. The case.   
  
John stared at him expectantly, as if waiting for Sherlock to start unveiling mysteries and murderers. Sherlock cleared his throat. "Hm- the case, no, I haven't."   
  
John smiled and looked down, as if he was a bit nervous about asking something, "want me to help you?"   
  
Sherlock side smiled but stood up so John wouldn't be able to watch it. "I told you, I like company when I'm thinking..."   
  
John stood up excitedly. "Great! Now, where do we start?"   
  
"Hush, John. I'm thinking."   
  
John rolled his eyes but stood silent while Sherlock moved the couch  away, took the photographs of the victims, photographs of their scars,  of their injuries, and other evidence they'd collected and hung them on the wall.   
  
The takeaway arrived and John sat while he ate, watching Sherlock carefully, but not saying anything.   
  
Finally he broke the silence, "eat your rice", he said with his mouth half  full.   
  
"I don't like Thai rice", Sherlock replied, but he was lying. It was the only one he really liked, he just didn't feel like eating at the moment. He didn't understand how, of all the things in the menu, John had chosen the only thing Sherlock tolerated eating.   
  
"Lying", John replied taking a large spoon of food and stocking it in his mouth. "Now eat your rice or I'll rip all those photographs off the wall."   
  
"You wouldn't", Sherlock said defiantly.   
  
John put his plate aside and raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, his eyes fixed on him.   
  
Slowly, silently, John stood up.   
  
Sherlock stared back at him but didn't move. "Try me", John replied.   
  
Sherlock crossed his arms stubbornly.   
  
John walked towards him as slowly as he had stood up, Sherlock looked at him fixedly, holding his breath, unable to say anything.   
  
John was closer and closer to Sherlock, both holding their gaze on each other, and closer and closer... Until he passed him by and Sherlock was finally able to exhale.   
  
John stopped in front of Sherlock's dashboard, looked at him even more defiantly, raised his arm, and tore one of the pictures of the evidence away from the wall.   
  
"John!", Sherlock said with indignation.   
  
"Eat something!", John replied, holding the photograph in front of Sherlock.   
  
"No."   
  
John grabbed another picture -the picture of the scar- and started to rip it off and if the damn photograph was damaged, they would be screwed. He kept his eyebrow raised while he stared at Sherlock and peeled it slowly, and  _no he wouldn't. He's doing it. Yes he would._   
  
In a blink of an eye Sherlock ran towards John and yanked his hand away from the photograph, just before John was able to take the photograph off the wall, John struggled to reach for the picture but Sherlock held him forcefully by the wrist. They looked stupid, and Sherlock  _couldn't_ care less.   
  
"Go grab something to eat, Sherlock!", John said, a little out of breath, trying to yank his wrists free.   
  
"I- don't. Eat. When. I'm. Working!", Sherlock replied.   
  
"You're not working! You were sleeping!"   
  
"I wasn't sleeping! I was thinking! Thinking about the  _case!"_ , Sherlock said, holding John's wrists tightly.   
  
"I was a soldier. I killed people."   
  
Sherlock replied with a scoff.   
  
Suddenly, John hit the wall and stopped struggling and talking, standing still. The unexpected absence of movement startled Sherlock and he looked up into John's eyes.   
  
John was against the wall, looking at Sherlock with wide eyes, his pupils dark, but his face gave nothing away. Sherlock looked at him silently, the only movement coming from their chests as they both panted.   
  
_Touch._ Sherlock's hands were holding John's wrists tightly. Overwhelming. The sensation was overwhelming. It was as if time had stopped for a second. As if there was nothing left in the world but the two of them. Millions of stars, supernovas and planets coming together, exploding, vibrating, moving, to create a time stop. Just to create this single second of absolute stillness. The world had stopped moving, the mind had stopped thinking, the wrists had stopped wrestling, and it was just the two of them. The two of them breathing in unison, staring into each other's eyes.   
  
_Vision._ John was close. Closer than he'd ever been before,  _before._ His face was blushed, why was it blushed? A map of wrinkles, expression lines, scars. A map leading to those black holes. His eyes, darker than he's ever seen them, somehow looked brighter. How was darkness capable of creating light?   
  
_Mind._ Sherlock looked at John carefully, he stored every single movement, every reaction he was perceiving at the moment, he gathered more and more data for his Mind Palace. He wanted to remember this, he needed to remember this.  _Remember._ John didn't. John didn't know who he was standing in front of. He knew the outside: a tall lean figure, a shadow, a black coat. He didn't know the inside: a drug addict, a machine, a sociopath, a  _person who cared._   
  
_Burning._ The exact spot where skin and skin met was burning. Exploding revealing discovering uncovering burying burning.  _Boom. Boom. Boom._ John's blood was pumping. Exploding revealing discovering uncovering burying burning. Pulse elevated. Burning.   
  
John licked his lips. Time started again.   
  
Sherlock yanked his hands away from his hold on John's wrists and walked away as fast as he could. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "You're right. I need to eat something."   
  
John's back was still perched against the wall, his breathing uneven. He stared at Sherlock with wide eyes, his wrists still raised at the height where Sherlock had left a burning mark seconds ago. Finally he blinked, and time moved faster. "I- I'll put the pictures back. Sorry", he said clearing his throat.   
  
_What the hell had just happened?_   
  
_*******_   
  
_Before the fall, Sherlock had touched John skin on skin a total of: one time. And even in that moment John was worried about what people might say. He didn't even care about the fact they were being chased by the police to get arrested. What he cared about was that people were definitely going to talk._   
  
_Sherlock didn't know why he had done it, to be honest. Perhaps the excuse might have been that they needed to run faster, but they were joined by handcuffs, of course John would have to run faster._   
  
_Still, at that moment, just when John and Sherlock started to run, Sherlock had only one thought on his mind: take John's hand. He didn't understand where the thought had come from, but right at the moment he didn't exactly have time to dwell on it, so he acted on it. And he took John's hand._   
  
_And the rest is blurry. There was one clear image in his head: their silhouettes as they ran past buildings and fences, while they ran as fast as they could. But the rest of London was blurry. Every once in a while he would go back to that memory, and he could remember nothing but their joined hands._   
  
_So Sherlock held into that touch, as ephemeral as it was. He wanted it to last longer, and judging from the way John was holding the cuff of his coat after they broke apart, he was longing for it too._   
  
_And it didn't make sense. At all_ .   
  
It was in moments like that that Sherlock felt like he hated John for what he had done. Of course he didn't hate him, he couldn't ever hate him, but he felt rage building up in his body every time he remembered something John  _didn't._   
  
They were supposed to remember those memories  _together,_ there were  _two_ people running down the centre of London,  _two_ people running away from the police,  _two_ joined hands,  _one_ person remembering it.   
  
Sherlock stared at John, at a John with his eyes fixed on the wall, looking intently at the photographs. He wanted to go there, take John by the shoulders and shake him until John saw some reason, until John remembered.   
  
The air was too hot. The air was too tight. Breathing became a chore.   
  
In the background, John was talking.   
  
"I had never seen anything like this before..."   
  
_So what do we do now?_   
  
"The pattern of the scar is very unusual, and if they're connected somehow, I simply can't tell why..."   
  
_We do what Moriarty wants me to do, becoming a fugitive, run!_   
  
"But it's so close to the head, there must be some relation with that, or maybe the neck. Yes, the neck..."   
  
_Take my hand._   
  
"Or in the back of the head, perhaps a surgery? Or a warning made before killing them?"   
  
_Now people will definitely talk._   
  
"Sherlock? Are you listening to me?", John said looking at him now, concern drawing on his face.   
  
_Sherlock, wait! We're going to need to coordinate!_   
  
"Sherlock!"   
  
Sherlock blinked back into real life. John. In Baker Street.   
  
He wanted to stand up and leave, but it wouldn't make much sense.   
  
His hands were shaking, why were his hands shaking? Sherlock clenched his hands into fists and closed his eyes, trying to even his breathing.   
  
"Sherlock, you okay?", John asked in that soft voice, that horrible soft voice which meant John cared, that John worried.   
  
Sherlock wanted to run away.   
  
He stood up immediately. "What are you doing here?"   
  
John frowned, clearly that wasn't the reply he was waiting for. "I- what?"   
  
"I didn't ask you to come."   
  
"I thought I could help with the case...", John said rubbing the back of his neck.   
  
"I didn't ask for your help, I didn't need your help, I DON'T NEED YOUR HELP!", Sherlock said, unable to control the tone of his voice, unable to keep himself from shouting.   
  
John's mouth fell agape and he stared at Sherlock for a moment. His eyes roamed all over Sherlock's face until the lines finally cleared. When John spoke up, the tone was conveying that kind of smile Sherlock had come to hate intensely, that kind of smile which only meant trouble. "What did you take?", he said, flaring his nostrils.   
  
"What?", now it was Sherlock's turn to look confused.   
  
"What. Did. You. Take?", John asked, looking furious.   
  
"What did I take of what?", this fight was going too fast for Sherlock to be able to make his brain work.   
  
"Sleeping for hours, not wanting to eat, outbursts of emotion. It can only mean drugs.", John said in his most doctor-like voice.   
  
_Drugs. Drugs. Drugs. John still thinks I'm an addict. The old John wouldn't think that. The old John would believe in me. This John still sees me as a threat._ "EXCUSE ME?", Sherlock asked, angrier than he should be.   
  
"Just tell me, Sherlock. Tell me and we'll look for some way to make the withdrawal easier."   
  
Sherlock dragged a deep breath. He hadn't taken drugs since he first met John, even though John didn't remember. It had been a huge effort not to do them, when he was away, when he was beaten the shit out of him in Serbia, when John popped by into his head like a distant memory. The only thought that had stopped him was that he was going to see John, that things would be better, that John couldn't see him like that. Well, look how well it worked.   
  
He didn't have any motivation at all. He might as well start using them again right now, in front of John, just to give him something to talk about, just to give him something he would want to  _forget._ The drugs were hidden in John's old bedroom. That, that stopped him. He couldn't go there, not right now.   
  
Sherlock sighed. This was the perfect ammunition. The perfect way to drive John away. "Morphine. Obviously. Aren't you supposed to deduce that,  _doctor?"_   
  
John shook his head. "Why- why morphine?"   
  
"Because sometimes I need my head to stop from racing. I need my head to shut up for just one second. I need to stop thinking!"   
  
"But why would you do that?", John asked, in disbelief.   
  
"Because thinking HURTS!", Sherlock said out of nowhere, raising his hand, and as soon as he did, he regretted it, because it was shaking violently. John was staring at Sherlock's face, but as soon as he saw Sherlock's hand, he walked closer to him.   
  
"Shit. Sherlock how much did you take?"   
  
_Nothing._ "I'm a graduated chemist. I. Have. It. Under. Control."  _But I don't have myself under control._   
  
"How about I bring you some ice? Or some tea? We can wait until-"   
  
Sherlock closed his eyes, breathing was too difficult. "John. I don't need your help. I didn't ask for your help. I don't want you here."   
  
_Big. Terrible. Blatant lie._   
  
"Why are you doing this? I'm trying to help you in here!"   
  
"I don't want it! I don't need it, I just want you to GET OUT OF HERE NOW!"   
  
John stared at him with wide eyes, in disbelief. Finally, after a few seconds of confusion, he blinked. "Fine", he said with a nod and a sniff.   
  
He walked towards the wall where the photographs were hanging and forcefully tore three of them apart. "Good luck with your fucking case!"   
  
And then he walked away.   
  
Sherlock walked towards the window, opened the curtain slightly and saw John walking away.   
  
John was limping.   
  
Why was John limping?


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your lovely comments and kudos <3 they're always, always appreciated.

It had been three days and Sherlock hadn't talked to John since his little outburst. He wasn't certain if they would ever talk again, he wasn't certain why he had done it in the first place.  
  
It was all too confusing for him, it involved sentiment and feelings and Sherlock didn't want to deal with them right now, lest of all understand them.  
  
It was like walking through thin ice. John would be like old John at moments and Sherlock would forget about the whole deal, but when John was different from the John he was used to, from the John he had carefully stored in his mind palace, Sherlock couldn't help but feel absolute rage towards John.  
  
And feeling that rage made him feel guilty, because  _he_ was the one who had pushed John to do it so, had he let him know he was alive, had he let him know that he had saved him, things would have been completely different.  
  
Or maybe not. Maybe John wouldn't be talking to him and it would be worse because John would  _remember._  
  
So Sherlock should feel relieved that John didn't remember. But he didn't, he didn't in the slightest. He felt angry, he felt like he could somehow shake the memories in his brain. He had those sudden impulses to take him by the shoulders and make him see reason.  
  
How was it possible? It still didn't fit Sherlock's mind, it didn't make any sense. How was it possible that John couldn't remember  _shooting the cabbie being kidnapped when he was thought to be Sherlock Holmes being wrapped in Semtex nodding at Sherlock to shoot at the bombs choosing to die with him then at the Palace Sherlock stealing the ashtray naming some stupid case on his blog chasing the hound Sherlock admitting for the first and the last time in his life that he just had one friend them becoming fugitives them talking for the last time over the phone._  
  
Sherlock felt the sudden urge to reach for the morphine he had stored in John's old bedroom. But no. That would imply him having to go to that lifeless dim grey room and he didn't want that at the moment.  
  
This is what he had wanted all along since he came back from the death. For John to leave him alone, for John to leave him in peace. But now what he had it... No he didn't. He never wanted this. He never wished for this. He  _never_ would have chosen this.  
  
He wanted John next to him, chasing after criminals, making him laugh, he wanted John back in Baker Street writing his stupid blog posts with that fond smile he wore whenever he was writing. He wanted to make tea for John, he wanted to sit with him and talk for hours about the cases, he wanted John to be doctor John, to take care of him, to help him, to make his own mind  _stop_ thinking too much. John had a better effect than drugs, John was more efficient.  
  
Sherlock wanted John solving crimes with him and then coming back home with the smiles on their faces and the adrenaline pumping through their veins and he wanted to stop John at the front door just before entering the flat and kiss him senselessly until John was unable to form any coherent thought, until John couldn't think of anything but Sherlock's name, Sherlock wanted to touch, he wanted to feel, he wanted to be with John and...  _Oh no. Oh no no no. Delete that thought. Delete that thought!_  
  
Sherlock had never allowed himself to think this. Well, he had, he really had. Back in those days in Serbia when all he had was the silent promise of a reencounter, Sherlock allowed himself to think, Sherlock allowed himself to hope, to hold the illusion.  
  
This was very unlike him, this stupid outburst of...sentiment, this longing to be with someone else, this longing to be with  _John._ And yet, John Watson was always the exception to the rule. Always.  
  
But now John Watson was gone, and had been replaced by someone who didn't trust Sherlock enough, by someone who still thought Sherlock was an addict, by someone Sherlock couldn't help but think about.  
  
So it was better for both of them, to stand apart from each other, to be as far away as possible, it was never going to work, and obviously John wouldn't ever want to. Who on earth would like to be with someone like him?  
  
He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. This was getting boring, he should stop this, this laying on the couch doing nothing, he should stand up and solve a crime, his mail was bursting with mysteries, but none of them were appealing to him. God, what was wrong with him? how could this be possibly happening? when did the work become so irrelevant to him when it used to be all he cared about?  
  
When he opened his eyes again it was already late in the night. Well, another day of wasted time, he didn't really care anymore. He stretched his back, and stood up to get his violin, the only thing he still felt like doing. He was about to fetch it when his mobile rang. Sherlock went to pick it up, absolutely  _not_ hoping it would be John, of course not.  
  
It was Lestrade.  
  
"Lestrade", Sherlock said, rolling his eyes, unable to hide the annoyance off his voice.  
  
"Sherlock!", Lestrade said happily, in the background there was a loud noise of... _music?_ Sherlock frowned. "Hey! It's Sherlock! I'm talking to Sherlock!", Lestrade yelled.  
  
Sherlock sighed. "Drinking again, Lestrade? I know your marriage is falling apart, but-"  
  
He was interrupted. "Oh! Sherlock? You talking to Sherlock?", a voice said on the other end of the line.  
  
Sherlock widened his eyes immediately. Not even the horrible noise of that trashy pop music sounding in the pub muffled the unmistakeable voice of John Watson, a  _very_ drunk John Watson from what he heard.  
  
Lestrade laughed. Sherlock blinked and cleared his throat. "What do you want, Lestrade? Clearly this phone call is not related to any murder..."  
  
"Ha! No! I'm here, and John's here, say hi John!"  
  
"Hi, Sherlock! It's John!!!!", John said between giggles. And Sherlock thought about it, John was at a pub, getting as drunk as he could, probably with a girl's phone number written on a napkin and saved on his black leather jacket... he couldn't help the sudden rush of jealousy.  
  
"Yes, hello. Thank God formalities are over, now would you please tell me, Lestrade, what was the reason for you calling at this hour?"  
  
Lestrade was silent for a moment, as if he was trying to remember why he had called Sherlock in the first place. Finally, he sighed, "I- John, why was I calling Sherlock?"  
  
John laughed and apparently grabbed Lestrade's phone to yell at Sherlock. "We need a ride home!"  
  
Lestrade took it back. "Oh yeah!", he replied. "That's why!"  
  
Sherlock sighed as loudly as he could so even John could hear it. "So get yourself a cab!"  
  
Lestrade giggled. "Uh--- I wish, but I'm not sure I'll make it out of this door", and John and him burst in laughter.  
  
Sherlock's patience was wearing thin, this was absurd. Was this some sort of joke he didn't understand? Why was Lestrade calling  _him?_ Couldn't he phone... Molly? His wife? Donovan? even Anderson?  
  
Lestrade seemed to sober up a tiny little bit to reply to Sherlock. He cleared his throat. "Sherlock, please, could you come and pick us up? I never do this, but I think we're a bit drunk... please? if not for me, at least do it for John."  
  
Sherlock rubbed his eyes, he knew that Lestrade would play the John card, and how could he say no? He dragged a deep breath. "Where are you?"  
  
Lestrade talked to John. "Yeah, he's picking us up!"  
  
This was going to be a long night.  
  
*******  
  
It was three in the morning when Sherlock arrived to the pub. Fortunately, it wasn't very far from Baker Street. He asked the cabbie to wait for him, and he entered to it. He found Lestrade asleep over the table, with a pint still on his hand. He looked around but couldn't find John.  
  
Oh, but he did. After scanning the whole pub, he found John sitting on another table, laughing while he chatted happily with a woman.  
  
Sherlock snorted loudly, hoping John would listen to it over the hideous sound of that woman's laugh.  
  
He didn't, he didn't even realise Sherlock was there.  
  
Sherlock silently wondered what he was doing here and he asked himself if he really had lost his mind this time.  
  
He was already here, so at least he could help Lestrade, he looked like he needed it. He wouldn't bother John, he certainly had other things in his mind at the moment.  
  
"Lestrade...", he said leaning over him.  
  
Lestrade kept snoring.  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes and shook him while he said louder, "LESTRADE!"  
  
Lestrade opened his eyes lazily and yawned. He narrowed them, as if he couldn't quite distinguish who was standing in front of him. "Sh-", his voice sounded slurred, "Sherlock?"  
  
"Yes, it's me, fantastic", Sherlock said clenching his jaw while he did the best impression of a fake smile he could because  _John was touching that woman's arm._ "Now let's go. I don't have time to waste."  
  
Lestrade stood up, but almost fell. He had to hold the table tightly. "Where- where's...  _John?_ "  
  
Sherlock shrugged. "Somewhere, I don't know. He's busy. Let's go, the cabbie is waiting."  
  
Lestrade half-closed his eyes, as if he could distinguish John better like that, when it proved unsuccessful, he decided to yell. "JOHN!!! JOHN!!! SHERLOCK'S HERE!"  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. Yes. He had definitely lost his mind.  
  
John turned to look at Lestrade and stood up immediately, and he fell.  
  
Sherlock went to pick him up, but John shook him off. "Fine- I'm fine", he said as he stood up, moving from one place to another, trying to find some balance.  
  
John looked up at who had helped him and smiled. "Sherlock, hello", he said through half-lidded eyes.  
  
Sherlock looked at the woman, feeling secretly pleased that John was no longer fixing his attention on her. She was looking at John with a frown.  
  
He looked back at John and smiled weakly. "Hello, John."  
  
A horn sounded in the distance, and Sherlock blinked. "Come, Lestrade", he said pulling his coat, and yanking John from his coat too.  
  
They stumbled behind Sherlock the whole way towards the cab. Lestrade was right, he wouldn't have made it out of the pub by himself.  
  
Sherlock muttered Lestrade's address to the cabbie, while the DI fell asleep again.  
  
John was awake, and seemed to be a bit more sober than Lestrade, but his eyes were sleepy, and his left hand was trembling, but right now John didn't care about hiding it.  
  
The car ride went in silence and they stopped in front of Lestrade's house soon. Sherlock had to shake him to wake him up, had to help him get out of the cab and take him to the door, take the keys off Lestrade's coat pocket and open it for him.  
  
Lestrade hugged him before entering, "thank you, Sherlock. Ya know- yer a good man. You are", he said placing a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.  
  
Sherlock shrugged it off. "Yes, yes, goodbye", he said pushing Lestrade into his house and closing the door. He looked at it for a moment, hm, how curious, Lestrade's wife had moved out. Probably the reason why he ended up that drunk.  
  
When he returned to the cab, John was frowning at him, although Sherlock didn't understand why. The cabbie raised an eyebrow at them expectantly, waiting for an address, and Sherlock felt very, very uncomfortable. Of course he knew where John lived, but John wasn't supposed to know that. He waited for John to give it but apparently that wasn't going to happen, he opened his mouth to speak, but John's voice interrupted him.  
  
"Baker Street", he said, sounding surprisingly lucid, he turned to look at Sherlock, his face giving nothing away, "221 Baker Street."  
  
*******  
It was raining by the time the cab arrived to Baker Street. John had spent the rest of the ride home (home?) silently, and Sherlock was too busy trying to understand what the hell did John mean when he decided to come to this place. Was the alcohol talking? was his subconscious talking? did he remember anything?  _of course not, don't be stupid,_ Sherlock told himself.  
  
While wandering around through the many possible answers, Sherlock settled on the one which seemed to be the most probable one: because Baker Street was  _closer._ Of course, this was all a matter of commodity, it was easier to go from Lestrade's house to his than crossing half London to get to John's small, dull, grey apartment.  
  
He was deep in thoughts when he felt a hand on his forearm, pulling him out of his mind palace, he turned and found John staring at him through half-lidded eyes. It took him a while to understand why he was looking at him, but he blamed his slowness on John's blurry gaze, finally he realised: the cab had stopped, they were in front of the house.  
  
Sherlock paid the cabbie and helped John get out and climb the stairs to the flat, he really had drunk too much and barely could stand by himself, but he looked like he couldn't care less at the moment.  
  
John smiled as soon as he entered to the flat. Sherlock walked him towards the couch and sat him there. "I'll make you some tea", Sherlock said walking towards the kitchen.  
  
John nodded slowly, as if his brain was having trouble processing what Sherlock had said. When he spoke up again he simply blurted out a slurry "...thank you."  
  
He put the water on the kettle and waited for it to boil, decidedly not looking at John, his mind was trying to find answers, but at the same time it didn't want to find any answer at all.  
  
One part of his brain was telling the other part of his brain to shut up, stop asking questions and just enjoy the fact that John Watson was there, as if he had never left.  
  
Of course, he never listened to that part of his brain, he was used to ignore it, and this moment was not the exception.  
  
As soon as the tea was ready, he gave it to John who accepted it with a nod, a 'hmm' and asking if he didn't have any vodka. Sherlock was sitting on the coffee table, in front of John, watching him carefully. Then they fell silent.  
  
Sherlock broke it.  
  
"Why here?", he really needed to know.  
  
John blinked, putting the cuppa aside. "What?", he asked trying to look serious.  
  
"Why did you tell the cabbie to drop us here?"  
  
John looked around. "This is your house, isn't it?", he frowned.  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. It was pointless, talking to a drunk John, but it was the only way Sherlock would ever ask him that kind of questions. He certainly wouldn't when he was sober.  
  
"I thought you were angry."  
  
John shrugged, holding his hands out. "Thought  _you_ were angry"  
  
"I'm not", Sherlock said, immediately. Back then he had been angry, but right now sitting in front of a very drunk John, he just couldn't be angry.  
  
John leaned back against the couch, struggling to keep his eyes open. "Good", he said lowly.  
  
Sherlock nodded.  
  
John's eyes closed and his head started to fall aside. Sherlock shook his arm and he reacted, waking up instantly, as if he had just remembered something. "No, wait! I  _am_ angry! I'm angry with you, you posh git!"  
  
Sherlock couldn't help but smile, just a tug of the corner of his lips. "Understood."  
  
"That's all you're going to say?"  
  
"I'm sorry?", Sherlock said, although he really really wasn't.  
  
"Yes, like if you meant it."  
  
"I'm sorry for always doing the same thing", that was as honest as he could get. He didn't know why he had said it, he just felt like it would be easier.  
  
John stared at him, frowning, his eyes unfocused. Suddenly, his gaze roamed down, looking at Sherlock up and down. He leaned forward a bit. "It's just-"  
  
Sherlock swallowed and John's eyes stopped over his Adam's apple. Slowly and unsteadily, John extended his left hand and placed two fingers over it.  
  
Sherlock looked down, just distinguishing John's hand below his chin.  
  
John's fingers moved down just a bit, slowly, Sherlock's eyes following them. He frowned, as if he was gathering all his efforts to keep his eyes open, as if he closed them, the moment would be over. John's fingers stopped over the middle of Sherlock's collarbones. They stood there, caressing softly the skin.  
  
Sherlock froze, his mind was blank. He just kept his eyes focused on John's hand, on how it moved slowly. He dragged a deep breath, trying to stay calm.  
  
"I can't seem to be angry with you. There's always something-", John's frown deepened, as his brain processed the next words he was about to say. "Something pushing me back to you. I don't understand. It's as if I  _understood_ you, and at the same time I didn't, and I want to, God I want to..."  
  
Sherlock looked up and their eyes met, John's eyes could barely stand open, they were wobbling, wishing to get some rest, but they were John's eyes, always so bright, always so blue, always so kind. "You do."  
  
John's fingers kept touching Sherlock's skin. None of them moved. "It's not enough."  
  
This was absurd. John was drunk and this didn't make any sense and John was drunk.  
  
Sherlock cleared his throat and blinked. John's hand immediately retreated.  
  
Sherlock sighed, closed his eyes for a second and opened them again. "You need to get some sleep".  
  
John nodded. "'kay", he said softly. "Can I stay here?", he asked hesitantly.  
  
Sherlock smiled at him as he stood up. "Obviously."  
  
"Ta", John replied, laying on the couch. He closed his eyes and mumbled something like "night, Sherlock."  
  
Sherlock stood there, looking at him for a moment, before softly replying, "goodnight, John."  
  
John smiled and his breathing slowed, meaning he had fallen asleep.  
  
Sherlock should get some sleep too. He was tired, these minutes had wore him out, and he needed some rest.  
  
But John might need him. He was drunk, perhaps he would feel sick or something.  
  
He considered for a moment, looking at John, who was already deeply asleep.  
  
He finally settled for sitting on his chair, the lights turned down, looking at John, just in case something happened.  
  
He had a lot of things to think about.


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock woke up as he felt a kick on his ankle, followed by a whispered "shit!"   
  
"John?", he asked intuitively, he felt a bit disoriented, but it was the first thing that came to his mind.   
  
He opened his eyes and found John standing in front of him, rubbing the back of his neck, "Yes, erm... Sorry, didn't mean to wake you up, actually I was trying to make it to the bathroom without turning on the lights".   
  
Sherlock rubbed his eyes before sitting straight on the chair. "It's fine", he looked up to John, it really was quite dark, but the streetlight coming from the window casted a slight shadow over John's face, making half of it shiny and bright, the other half completely dark. He stared at John for a while.   
  
Until a movement caught his eye. He looked down and realised that John's left hand was shaking. A lot. He tried his best not to show it, clenching and unclenching his fist, but it was too obvious, even in the dark.   
  
"Hungover?", Sherlock asked, aiming to make a casual conversation.   
  
John closed his eyes and nodded. The half of his face shined even brighter. "A bit, yeah."   
  
"I can imagine...", Sherlock replied, and it sounded harsher than he intended.   
  
"I em... Sorry, didn't want to bother you", John said looking away.   
  
"You didn't", Sherlock said.   
  
"I just- god I don't even remember half of what happened last night", he said with a sigh.   
  
Sherlock shrugged, "as far as I'm aware, you just happened to have a lot to drink and couldn't make it back to your house by yourself."   
  
Sherlock turned around the topic in his head over and over again. Why had John said 221B Baker Street when the cabbie had asked him for an address? None of the possible answers made sense to him, he honestly didn't know what to believe. Which was quite unusual.   
  
"Why here?", John asked quietly.   
  
Sherlock stood up in front of him and held his gaze. They used to do this a lot before... Before. He liked to do it, it felt as if John was opening the doors to him every time he did it so, as if he was able to peer into his soul, as if every secret John Watson ever held was unveiled under his eyes. So he did, and John did too, as if some kind of spell had been casted over the two of them, both unable to move their eyes apart from each other.   
  
John cleared his throat and looked away after a second. Sherlock dragged a deep breath and walked past John. "What time is it?", he aimed for the kitchen.   
  
John looked at the clock on his left (shaking) hand and sighed. "6:30."   
  
"You should take a shower", Sherlock said matter-of-factly. "It'll make you feel better."   
  
John's shoulders slumped before he nodded. "Yes, maybe."   
  
John turned on the lights and walked towards the bathroom. Since he didn't have any change of clothes, he had to settle for wearing the same clothes from the night before. He took a shower and walked out, rubbing his hair with a towel. Sherlock looked at him, he definitely looked better. "Thank you", John said as he sat in the chair in front of Sherlock.   
  
Sherlock pointed with his chin towards the steaming cup at the table. "Made you some tea."   
  
John looked at it and narrowed his eyes, frowning. His expression softened a moment later. "Oh, thank you."   
  
Sherlock nodded and placed his hands below his chin, they fell silent once again.   
  
John sipped at his tea and frowned at Sherlock, "did you-", he started but Sherlock didn't turn to look at him.   
  
After a moment, Sherlock looked at him, surprised, and said, "sorry, you were saying?"   
  
John cleared his throat and spoke once again, "did you... Stay here all night?", he asked looking down at his cuppa instead of facing Sherlock.   
  
Sherlock blinked. "I-", he didn't know what to say, "um, you might have needed help with something. Wanted to make sure you were fine."   
  
John nodded without looking at him. "Thank you", he replied after a while.   
  
Sherlock looked at the flat door instead of John's face. "It would have been tedious had you thrown up on ou-  _my_ living room."   
  
John smiled a bit. "Yeah, yeah I wouldn't have liked that."   
  
Sherlock looked at John carefully, every time he blinked, his eyes closed forcefully, as if he felt like his head was going to fall apart if he kept them open. "Headache?", he asked, feeling a bit terrified.   
  
John flinched. "-Yes...", he brought a hand to his head. "It always happens, whenever I drink, I know I shouldn't."   
  
"Then why did you?", Sherlock asked, looking at him fixedly.   
  
John blinked once again and stared back at Sherlock without saying anything. His face showed that he still was in pain, but he was trying to cover it. John didn't reply.   
  
"Given your family history, is not advisable to do it so", Sherlock said when John's stare turned too intense.   
  
"My family history?", John asked confused.   
  
"Alcoholic father and alcoholic sister. Why drinking?"   
  
John swallowed, dragging a deep breath. "Why indeed?"   
  
Sherlock stood up, this was turning annoying. He sighed, "do you want anything for breakfast? I don't cook, but I could ask Mrs Hudson-"   
  
John shook his head. "No, no, I really don't want to bother."   
  
"You're not a bother, John", Sherlock replied, looking around the flat.   
  
"I don't believe you", John said, his face turning to look at the photographs of the murders, still hanging on the wall.   
  
Sherlock wanted to say something, to tell John that he would never ever be a bother, that 221B was his home, and he would always be welcome there, that he enjoyed every single second he was there, close to him, that it felt like the old times, as if nothing had ever changed, as if he had never erased him from... But he couldn't come up with anything, so he remained silent.   
  
John straightened his back and sighed. "I should go home."   
  
_This is your home, stay._   
  
"I have to work and-"   
  
_Work can wait, stay._   
  
"-yes, I have to go."   
  
_You don't, stay_ .   
  
"Alright", Sherlock replied, buttoning his suit jacket.   
  
"Once again, thank you, for um- everything. And I'm sorry", John said rubbing the back of his head.   
  
"Don't be", Sherlock said looking at him.   
  
John nodded and stared at him for a moment, oscillating in front of the door, then he looked at the wall full of pictures once again and he turned to leave.   
  
He was walking down the stairs when Sherlock, out of impulse, shouted, "John!"   
  
John turned and looked at him with a frown. "Yeah?", was his reply.   
  
Sherlock looked away hesitantly, but finally decided to speak up. "You could come by... Later. I could, you know, use some help with the case."   
  
John considered what Sherlock had said for a moment, his face showing three different expressions: confusion, realisation, and then: anger.  _Bit not good?_ , Sherlock asked himself nervously.   
  
John didn't reply.   
  
Sherlock tried to fix it. "I mean- if you- if you want. If that's what you want. Don't feel forced to do it so. I- I..."   
  
"You still don't get it, do you?", John asked, shaking his head.   
  
"Get what?", Sherlock wondered, asking himself silently if he had missed a part of their conversation.   
  
John smiled in disbelief, that scary kind of smile. "Sherlock, last time I helped you out with the case, you  _threw_ me  _out_ of the flat. So what now? Do you expect me to come back running like a puppy whenever you feel in a good mood, only to end up being kicked out of here? Then no, thank you!", John said, his voice tone getting progressively louder.   
  
Sherlock remained stile the for a moment, his eyes narrowed, finally, after a while, he replied, "I'm- sorry?", he said, feeling a bit lost.   
  
"Don't say it when you don't mean it, Sherlock!", John said pointing towards him. "Just don't!"   
  
"Fine!", Sherlock said, getting a bit stressed out by this stupid argument. "I promise I won't kick you out, and I  _do_ mean that!"   
  
John looked at him with a 'I don't believe a single word you just said', before sighing, blinking and replying, "yeah right."   
  
Sherlock smiled at him, a wide smile that he often saved just for John Watson. "I promise I won't kick you out. I do."   
  
John pointed a finger towards him, menacingly. "Well you better don't, because if you do...bloody hell, I won't ever put another step on Baker Street ever again!"   
  
Sherlock nodded. "Understood."   
  
John nodded. "See you later, then."   
  
He turned and walked away. As the door was closing, Sherlock replied, "see you, John."   
  
*******   
  
They didn't.   
  
At least not in the circumstances they expected to.   
  
It all happened in a rush: the next time Sherlock saw John, he barely saw him, could barely recognise him and had trouble distinguishing reality from fantasies. His eyes were half-lidded, he suddenly felt sleepy,  _why do I feel sleepy?_ And John was looking at him with concerned eyes.   
  
"For God's sake!", John almost shouted as soon as he looked at Sherlock. "What the hell happened to you?"   
  
_What the hell happened to me?_   
  
_Why is it so difficult to remember? Focus!_   
  
He couldn't reply. "I- I..."   
  
He remembered running. Yes. He had been running, running from what? Too nebulous. He remembered running and then black. Why black? Oh!...   
  
He wasn't running from something, he was running  _towards_ something. Someone. A burglar.   
  
Lestrade had called him for... Something. A break-in. Yes.   
  
"John?", Sherlock asked because he really wasn't certain if all of this was happening in his head or in real life.   
  
John quickly grabbed Sherlock's head and examined it. "You're bleeding! Jesus, Sherlock what happened to you?"   
  
Sherlock heard a voice distantly that turned louder and louder until it felt like someone was screaming right on his ear. He winced. "I just called him for a case and he burst out running from here without saying a word!", Lestrade said.   
  
Sherlock's pain finally made him form coherent words. "Would you please  _shut up_ for a second?", he felt like he was going to pass out. Nah, he probably needed some sleep. Yes. Sleep sounded good, maybe he would make himself comfortable in this chair and-   
  
"NO!", he heard John shouting, like a drum being kicked over and over. John's voice had never had such a painful effect on him. Had it?   
  
Sherlock opened his eyes and found John crouching in front of him, examining him throughly, with a very doctor-like gaze. He smiled a little bit. He liked it when John turned into doctor Watson.   
  
"You're not allowed to fall asleep! You hear me Sherlock?"   
  
"I feel sick", was all Sherlock could reply, because he really did, the whole room was spinning and he was pretty sure that had he eaten something before coming in here, he would have already thrown up in Lestrade's office.   
  
"Yes, yes", John said, standing up. "You probably have a concussion. I'm going to clean the wound."   
  
Sherlock nodded silently. He didn't understand a single word John had just said, he felt sleepy, oh so sleepy, it was all blurry around him. Until-   
  
Sherlock stood up immediately and looked at John's hands, which were stained with red. "John, you're bleeding! Are you alright?", he asked. Suddenly, his breath had rushed and he was having trouble controlling the wave of nausea, the panting, the standing, the dizziness.   
  
John replied with a frown. "Sherlock, it's your blood", he said seriously.   
  
Sherlock looked at John's hands again. "But are you- you are okay, are you?"   
  
John raised his eyebrow. "I- yes. I'm good, everything is good. It's all fine."   
  
Sherlock nodded, suddenly feeling relieved because John was okay but he really, really was not. His knees buckled and he felt himself falling to the floor in slow motion. Or perhaps it didn't happen in slow motion, it just felt that way in his head.   
  
"Shit!", he heard as he fell. Then he felt an arm pulling him up again, which seemed like something really really stupid to do. He could just lay down in there and get some sleep. That was all he needed. "Sherlock, stand up, please!"   
  
John was pulling him up with all the force he could. Sherlock sat on the chair and blinked. His eyes finally adjusted and he could see John clearly, not blurry, looking at his own hands and then looking at Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock smiled at him. "Hello!", he said.   
  
John frowned. "Yes, hi. Sherlock, I need you to not fall asleep. I'll check on the wound, make sure everything's fine, but you hit your head very hard. Who did this to you?"   
  
Sherlock shrugged. "Too nebulous. Need some sleep."   
  
John rolled his eyes. "God, stop being so stubborn!", he patted him on the shoulder. "At least you caught him."   
  
Sherlock blinked. "Caught who?"   
  
"The burglar! Lestrade just got a call and left running, they got him!"   
  
"Oh...yes", Sherlock replied, lied. He really didn't remember, but he was almost certain he hadn't caught him. "How did I get here?", Sherlock asked with a frown.   
  
"One of the officers brought you here. He found you and insisted on calling an ambulance but apparently you insisted on coming back here."   
  
Sherlock half-understood what John said, and actually half-remembered. He was found by someone and he started spurting out deductions at him, and somehow he ended up here. Well done. He nodded and John laughed while he looked at him. "He was trying to blink back the tears when he arrived, you know?", John said and turned to get Scotland Yard's first-aid kit, while he giggled.   
  
"I wish I could remember what I told him", Sherlock replied without thinking, but just after he did, he closed his eyes. damn it, he didn't think that through.   
  
Realisation hit John all of the sudden, and he turned to look at him with a frown, his face changing its expression completely. "What?", John asked, walking towards Sherlock and crunching in front of him, "what do you mean? you don't remember what happened to you?"   
  
Sherlock shook his head and oh god the blow to the head had made him slow because, had he thought it through, he would have realised that that was a bit not good thing to say. John's worried eyes said it all.   
  
"...shit. Don't fall asleep!", John said, pointing a finger towards him menacingly, and turned to retrieve some gauze and alcohol from the first-aid kit.   
  
Sherlock blinked and felt that his own brain was shutting down for a second and oh god sleep sounded so good right now and the sounds were sounding so distant and John seemed so distant and Sherlock found himself suspended in a spot between dreams and reality and as hard as he tried he couldn't tell each other apart.   
  
He felt a soft, light touch on his chin, keeping him onto reality, or keeping him asleep? it was hard to tell.   
  
It was a nice feeling, though. He opened his eyes and found John's deep blue eyes, piercing onto him, scanning him with his gaze. Sherlock blinked, John's hand was what was touching his chin, and he was awake. Kind of. And he still hadn't taken his hand off it.   
  
"I'm going to clean the wound now", John explained, grabbing a bit of cotton and placing it in front of Sherlock's injury, on the right corner of his forehead, "this might hurt a bit."   
  
As soon as he touched it, Sherlock flinched, it hurt too much, somehow his brain made that pain -which was something Sherlock was used to feeling, for heaven knows he had had much worse injuries- become unbearable. He hissed.   
  
Until he felt a hand in the back of his head and he opened his eyes and realised that John was massaging his head softly, trying to soothe the pain, "shhhh, it's okay", he whispered and suddenly Sherlock wasn't in much pain anymore.   
  
John kept cleaning the wound while keeping his hand on Sherlock's scalp, as he kept touching and caressing and Sherlock wondered if John was aware that he was doing such thing, or if that was something he did as a doctor. He stopped that train of thought because if considered the second option, he would get really, really jealous of John's patients.   
  
"Hey, we're almost finished, okay?" John murmured as he cleaned the wound and the skin around, the cotton ended up stained red with blood. "I'm going to have to cover it up with gauze, please don't touch the injury." John raised Sherlock's head a little, keeping his hand fixed to the back of it, and as soon as he did, he stared deep into Sherlock's eyes, "how did you do this to yourself?", he asked softly, lowly.   
  
Sherlock smiled a bit and simply replied, "I needed to get the suspect!"   
  
John's hand moved through the back of his head, and Sherlock might be a little confused from the concussion, and he might be feeling sleepy, but right at that moment, he understood that movement perfectly: it was a caress. "Of course you did", John replied with a smile.   
  
While John covered Sherlock's wound with the gauze and held it firmly there, Sherlock yawned, and the sleepiness that had faded away when John touched him was slowly and progressively coming back. Sherlock blamed it on the fact that John wasn't touching him anymore, well he was, but merely as a professional doctor, doing what he was meant to do, not soothing caresses, not 'wake-up' touches.   
  
Sherlock yawned, "...sleepy", was all he managed to say, his brain was slowly shutting itself off, and even though he hated sleeping, he felt as if his body was charging him for all those times he denied himself to get some rest.   
  
John nodded. "Yeah, yeah. Just, wait a second please, I'll finish with this and we'll go home, alright?", he said, feeling anxious, desperate to finish as soon as possible.   
  
Sherlock's brain was too slow to process the  _we'll go home_ part of the sentence. Thankfully it wasn't slow enough not to store it in his mind palace.   
  
  
Sherlock nodded without saying another word.   
  
Things were a blur, suddenly Sherlock found himself in the back of a car, with John right next to him, he felt a little disoriented. "Where are we going?", he asked, looking around.   
  
"To Baker Street", John replied.   
  
It was soothing somehow, John wasn't living there anymore, there was nothing left linking him to Sherlock, yet he was always going to be there when Sherlock needed him. The detective hummed happily and started to drift off, leaning against the cab's window.   
  
"No!", he heard in the distance.   
  
John grabbed him by his arm and yanked him a bit towards him, causing Sherlock to wake up. "Jesus Sherlock, you can't fall asleep when you have a concussion, aren't you supposed to know that? You could die and I would never, ever allow such thing to happen if I can help it!"   
  
_That's a strange thing to say_ , Sherlock thought, but his brain didn't dwell on it. Too tired, perhaps closing his eyes would help...   
  
John grabbed him by the chin once again,  _he really should stop doing that,_ Sherlock thought as he opened his eyes and stared directly at John's face, slightly closer than he thought it would be. He felt a bit surprised of the sudden closeness between both of them. John didn't seem to notice, instead he looked into Sherlock's eyes and spoke very, very seriously. "Sherlock, keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, would you do this for me?"   
  
Something within Sherlock's brain  _remembered._   
  
_Stay exactly where you are! Don't move! Keep your eyes fixed on me! Please, would you do this for me?_   
  
_Do what?_   
  
He had wanted John to see him. He was showing himself whole, without facades, without restraints. He was showing emotions for the very first time and right at that moment he didn't care at all if John saw him crying because he hoped that that look would be enough for John to know.  _I'm doing this for you. I'm on the losing side. Have been from the very start. Look at me and observe, please, because I'm telling you everything I'm not capable of saying with words._   
  
John didn't get it.   
  
John went and erased him from his mind.   
  
Sherlock found it hard to breathe, it was all coming too fast: memories of the past coming back like ghosts ready to haunt him, John's voice trying to anchor him to the present, but the vague idea that John had actually deleted him from his mind floating around, as a painful, constant reminder that this was never going to work, that there would never be such thing as Sherlock and John, Holmes and Watson, Hat-man and Robin. Never again.   
  
John's grip on his chin suddenly felt like it was burning, leaving marks, leaving scars, the air was too hot, but it was cold outside. Sherlock was panting, blinking repeatedly, trying to calm himself down, but it was too hard when everything he could think about was  _goodbye John!_ And _no, don't! SHERLOCK!_ And _my name is John Watson and I'm here to erase Sherlock Holmes._   
  
He broke himself from John's touch and distanced himself as much as possible inside a cab. John looked at him with a confused expression. "Sherlock...is everything alright?"   
  
_"No, no there was not such thing as a relationship."_   
  
Sherlock didn't reply.   
  
"Sherlock?"   
  
_"He's dead. He killed himself."_   
  
Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head. John reached out a hand to touch him, which was unusual because they never touched, except for that one time when they held hands, but that was because they were handcuffed together. Or so he made himself believe. Sherlock moved away from the touch. John's frown deepened.   
  
"Are you okay? Does, does your head hurt? Do you need anything? Please don't keep me in the dark here, Sherlock!"   
  
_"And I couldn't do anything, I couldn't save him, I couldn't tell him I believed in him."_   
  
_"_ I'M FINE!", Sherlock yelled, looking out the window and John grew silent.   
  
They stood silent for the rest of the ride to Baker Street.   
  
Once they arrived, John stood awkwardly by the door. Sherlock's unusual panic attack - _it wasn't a panic attack,_ he thought stubbornly- had faded and left him exhausted and with a deep feeling of uncertainty on his chest.   
  
Why did John phrase it that way?   
  
Did he- did he  _remember?_   
  
Impossible. The procedure was permanent.   
  
Sherlock hung the coat and went to the bathroom to look at himself in the mirror. He ran the taps and splashed some water over his face, he needed it. John stood still at the entrance, his soldier posture, his hands behind his back.   
  
When Sherlock walked into the living room, John nodded at him. "So um- let me know if you need anything. Don't fall asleep, please."   
  
John looked as if leaving was the thing he wanted the least in the world.   
  
And then his mind palace supplied the  _we'll go home._   
  
John had called it home.   
  
John was walking away. John was almost leaving, it wasn't right, he couldn't leave his home.   
  
Sherlock ran towards the door and yelled. "John!", he said, and John turned to look at him questioningly, "yeah?"   
  
"I- I need you to stay here. Please."   
  
John stood silent, his face gave nothing away. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he nodded. A tiny and almost imperceptible smile drew on his face as he climbed up the stairs.   
  
_Climbed up the stairs towards his home._   
  
He was restoring the order of the universe.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry for taking so long to update, I've just kind of been stuck on a writer's block, but hopefully everything will fall back into place once again. Promise the next update will be up soon, thank you so much for your comments and kudos, they mean the world to me.

The screams were what woke Sherlock up.  
  
He looked at the clock. It was 3 a.m. He had been asleep for two hours.  
  
John made them tea, the concussion was receding, and Sherlock wasn't feeling dizzy anymore, although still a bit sleepy.  
  
He managed to remember, though. He got to explain John how it all had happened: he had been running behind the burglar when it happened. Break-ins weren't his thing but this one was particularly interesting: nothing had been taken,  _but_ the window had been broken with a diamond.  
  
And his first instinct had been to message John Watson, which had been a very,  _very_ stupid idea, because John, of course, had forgotten all about it. Still, he replied saying he was already on his way to  Scotland Yard.  
  
But John was taking too long to get there and Sherlock contacted Mycroft in order to check the CCTV cameras around the manor. With Lestrade, they managed to identify him,  _no one of importance,_ Sherlock thought relieved, and since the impossibly imbecilic Scotland Yard was taking too long, Sherlock decided to go after him by himself.  
  
It ended up being a chase through rooftops, running over staircases, jumping around, and  _missing_ John Watson by his side. He was thinking about how John would always run slower but do his biggest physical effort to always be right behind him, and in that second, he crashed towards a pipe. And that's the last he could remember.  
  
As he told John the whole story, a mix of amusement and anger crossed down his features. "I can't believe you couldn't just wait for a few minutes, you had just gone when I got to Scotland Yard and Lestrade was bursting with anger."  
  
Sherlock shrugged. "I. Was. Bored!"  
  
When six hours had passed since the concussion, John finally agreed to allow Sherlock to get some sleep, but only with the promise that he would let John know if anything was wrong. Sherlock, for once in his life, went to bed without any hesitation, he was feeling exhausted.  
  
Before entering to his bedroom, he looked at John from the hallway: he was sitting in his chair, in front of the fire, roaming through today's newspapers, and it was such a great image: John fitted there, John belonged there.  
  
"John?", Sherlock called.  
  
"Yeah?", John said looking up from the newspaper while licking his lips.  
  
"Thank you for everything", it was so unusual for Sherlock to say these things, but he felt like John needed to know how grateful he was. Perhaps deep, deep inside, he feared that if he didn't say it enough, John wouldn't realise of how valuable he was and he would end up leaving. So, if he had to thank John for the rest of his life, he would do it, over and over again.  
  
"SHERLOCK!" Was the scream that he heard, and he stood up immediately. It was coming from John of course, a burglar, a murderer,perhaps? What if there was a follower of Moriarty, taking John to wrap him in semtex and-?  _Delete that thought._  
  
Sherlock ran towards the living room, he was ready to fight, ready to kick the ass of anybody who would lay a finger on John Watson, how dare them-  
  
The living room was dark and John was sleeping.  
  
Sleeping and screaming.  
  
Sherlock walked towards the couch, John was squirming, but he was still asleep, he just keep muttering "Sherlock, sh-"  
  
Sherlock thought about it for a second.  
  
That scream had sounded very much like that time John screamed Sherlock's name while he was falling.  
  
_Oh no._  
  
"John?", Sherlock said, crouching in front of him and patting his shoulder softly, trying to wake him up, desperate to wake him up.  
  
John flinched and sat up in a rush, panting and sweating. It took a second for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but he blinked and recognised Sherlock's face. His first instinct was to grab Sherlock's shirt into his fists, to pull at it, as if to make sure this was the reality, just this.  
  
When he did so, Sherlock was pulled towards John's face and suddenly they were so close that Sherlock could breathe John's air. He stared deeply into John's eyes, as John made sure that Sherlock was okay, that everything was alright.  
  
After a second of stillness and silence, John finally let go of the shirt, and Sherlock leaned back, afraid of what he might do if he stood so close to John.  
  
John rubbed his eyes with the back of his hands and sighed. "I-God I'm sorry", he said, breathing heavily.  
  
Sherlock's voice was just a little above a whisper, "nightmare."  
  
John closed his eyes and nodded, "yes."  
  
Sherlock was desperate to know what the nightmare had been of. Clearly it had been related to him, but why? If he was nothing but a stranger for John, why was John having a nightmare about him? It sounded like he was dreaming of the fall, but it didn't make sense, he had erased that image from his mind, it couldn't be there anymore.  
  
_"_ _There will remain ashes, little paths, something to bring us back that memory we've lost",_ Melissa had told him the day he wanted to get John Watson erased from his mind as well. What if she was right? What if that particular memory was fighting his way back?  
  
No. No no no no no.  
  
John couldn't remember that, of all the things they lived, that couldn't be the only memory coming back to his mind. No. If it was... No. He couldn't do that to John.  
  
But even if it had been the fall, why was John screaming his name? In John's brain it had only been two months since they met, he was no one for John Watson.  
  
But it didn't make any sense either. Sherlock knew how John's nightmares about Afghanistan were, he would always wake up silently, sob while he panted and the next day he would rub his shoulder all day. He didn't react like this.  
  
There was only one possible explanation of all the facts.  
  
"Are- are you okay?", John's voice rumbled through the silence.  
  
Sherlock blinked and turned to look at John, it was oddly familiar, looking at his face in the darkness, how it half-glowed from the lights in the street. He looked at him fixedly and slowly nodded. "Yes, why do you ask?"  
  
John looked relieved when he replied, "your concussion."  
  
Ah, Sherlock had completely forgotten about the concussion. The rush to go and help John had stifled any kind of pain, but now that he asked, he felt a bit of headache, nothing of importance though, so he just shook his head, "doesn't matter."  
  
"It does matter", John replied sharply. "I'm sorry for waking you up, I didn't- um, didn't expect this to happen."  
  
"It's okay", Sherlock shrugged, because it really was, he didn't care to be woken up, as long as John was feeling alright.  
  
John looked... Distant. Somehow his whole body language seemed to be silently begging Sherlock not to dwell on it, not to ask him anything about it, to just pretend nothing was happening and act natural.  
  
And so Sherlock did. He cleared his throat and stood up. "You should get some sleep."  
  
John shook his head. "No,  _you_ should get some sleep."  
  
"I never sleep too much. Slows me down."  
  
"Yes, but you had a concussion, you need to get rest, Sherlock."  
  
Sherlock looked at John and turned to walk away, but just before entering the hallway, he turned back. John was smiling, surprised when Sherlock agreed and walked away, but his smile faded while Sherlock went back to retrieve his violin.  
  
He didn't feel sleepy anymore, he didn't need sleep, he needed to make sure that John was alright and that he wouldn't get any more nightmares, and if that meant getting no sleep, well he was used to that.  
  
He looked through the tiny space where the curtains allowed him to see the street, and started playing.  
  
John didn't say a word, neither Sherlock. He stood with his back turned to him, just because he didn't want to see that look of embarrassment and pain in John's face. He didn't want to think too much about the nightmare, and he didn't want to ask John either, so all he could do to make him feel better was to let him know that he would be there, always, to calm him after every nightmare, and to pretend as if nothing happened. He hoped his violin was better at words than him.  
  
The sun was starting to show its first rays of light when Sherlock finished playing, when he turned, John was deeply asleep.  
  
*******  
  
Sherlock woke up to find 221B empty. It was obvious, John had work to do, and he didn't leave here anymore, why should he stay in here? Still, it was a little bit disappointing.  
  
He had fallen asleep sometime around 5 am, and it had been an unusual kind of sleep: it was as if his mind was still awake, aware of any sound coming from the living room, of any indicator that John was having a nightmare again, but at the same time, he fell deeply asleep, being somehow relieved that John would be there, at the living room, in case he needed Sherlock, or in case Sherlock needed him.  
  
John's first text arrived at 12. Sherlock was standing in front of the wall of the case, thinking, trying to go through every piece of evidence, wondering if inside of his mind palace there might be a little clue about what the scar meant in any of the cases, but still he couldn't find anything. And then his phone chimed. And he certainly didn't run to retrieve it and open the message.  
  
_Feeling better?_  
  
He smiled.  
  
_Yes. No longer pain, busy with the case. -SH._  
  
A second later, the reply arrived.  
  
_Thank you. For... You know._  
  
The nightmares. Sherlock could almost picture the look of embarrassment in John's face while typing the message. It was silly, it wasn't as if the nightmares were John's fault, on the contrary, John had seen so much and lived so much that Sherlock often wondered how he managed to cope with those images repeating themselves over and over and over again in his head.  
  
Because in Serbia, Sherlock thought for a moment that those nightmares were going to drive him over to the edge, and they happened over and over and over and he couldn't stop them and there were no drugs to muffle them and there was nothing to calm him down except the thought of fighting through it and seeing John again.  
  
Meanwhile, John was deleting him.  
  
Sherlock shook his head, no reason to go into that now, the damage was done, there was nothing left to do. Still, it hurt. It had been two months since Sherlock came back from death, and even though John had spent the night before on the flat, even though he was once again by Sherlock's side, solving cases, Sherlock couldn't help but feel anger and pain when he thought about what John had done.  
  
But what if.  
  
What if?  
  
What if the nightmares were the ones that pushed John over to the edge? What if they were always like last night's, and John would wake up only to find himself alone in an empty and boring flat and with the knowledge that Sherlock was dead and buried?  
  
Sherlock couldn't even start to consider that thought.  
  
He couldn't, because he understood. If he had been in John's place, and if John would have jumped off a roof-  
  
_No._  
  
He just couldn't deal with the mere idea of it.  
  
The phone chimed again.  
  
_Sorry, didn't mean to bother you._  
  
Sherlock frowned, why the message? Oh, he realised he had been staring at the screen for ten minutes and hadn't replied to John's text.  
  
_No, no, it's not a bother. You're welcome. Thanks to you for helping me, doctor. -SH_  
  
But he didn't receive a reply, which made sense a bit, John was busy working, probably some tiresome patient with a boring disease asking for his help, and Sherlock was filled by a need to see John Watson, to just be there with him, to listen to him, to talk to him.  
  
_Might need some help with the case later -SH._  
  
This time, the reply came almost immediately.  
  
_Can't. Have double shift today. Sorry._  
  
How was Sherlock supposed to solve cases if John wasn't there to help him?  _The same way you got yourself out of Serbia._ A voice in his mind palace replied.  
  
Sherlock didn't want to think about Serbia, but mind palace John was right, if real John wasn't there to help him, then he'd have to think about him, and he'd be his conductor of light.  
  
*******  
  
Sherlock really was trying to solve the serial murders, he really was, but perhaps for the first time in his life, he didn't have a single clue.  
  
So when Lestrade called him for another murder, he felt relieved. Well, someone had died, but still. This case was different, the victim had been shot dead.  
  
Sherlock spent the rest of the day in Scotland Yard, he solved the murder in about ten minutes, found out the killer had been the victim's ex-husband, after finding out she had signed a prenup and decided to take revenge because he wanted her money. So predictable.  
  
Sherlock wanted to chase the murderer. He didn't know why, perhaps he needed to feel the excitement of it, perhaps he was looking for another concussion or maybe just for a way of passing the time, so he told Lestrade everything about the victim  _except_ his current location, which Sherlock had deduced already: a hotel nearby the crime scene.  
  
_Finished the shift. Am I still needed?_  
  
Sherlock said goodbye to Lestrade and walked away as slowly and nonchalant as he could, pretending he was heading home while Lestrade called the rest of the detectives to go looking for the killer.  
  
He walked from the crime scene towards the hotel, meanwhile he texted John, because he knew John liked this part, even though he didn't remember he did.  
  
_Landmark Hotel. Come at once if convenient, if inconvenient come anyway -SH_  
  
He knew John would take about twenty minutes to get there, so he took the time to walk around the hotel and examine it. He got into the lobby and pretended to reserve a suite, while the receptionist was typing he managed to get a glimpse to the number of the room where the killer was staying in.  
  
"What are we doing here?", he heard John talking right behind him, so close he could almost feel his breath over his neck. He turned to find him smiling brightly.  
  
Sherlock didn't reply, but turned to look at the receptionist, who was looking at them with a smirk. "Excuse us for a moment", Sherlock said and grabbed John by the arm.  
  
They walked away from the receptionist and Sherlock whispered, "we're going to catch the killer."  
  
John's eyes widened. "The what? The serial killer?", he asked surprised.  
  
"No, not the serial killer. Another one. Do keep up.", Sherlock said annoyed.  
  
"I've been working all day, Sherlock! It's 11 in the night!"  
  
Sherlock frowned, "is it?"  
  
"Mr. Holmes!", the receptionist said.  
  
Sherlock walked towards her with a smile on his face.  
  
"Your room is reserved, and it includes free breakfast for you and your date."  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes, silently expecting the 'I'm not his date!', it had been ages since he last heard it.  
  
But it didn't come. John simply nodded and thanked her, yanking Sherlock by the arm.  
  
"Now, would you explain to me what we're doing here?", John asked lowly as they made their way towards the lift.  
  
Sherlock shook his head. "No time for that. Now, we got to get to room 519."  
  
John didn't say a single word, he simply nodded and stood straight, his usual battle position.  
  
"Did you bring your gun?"  
  
"Why would I? I was working!"  
  
"It's in your jacket, isn't it?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Some things never changed. Sherlock wondered if deep, deep inside John remembered anything about any of the cases, or if it was as if he remembered solving them but didn't remember anyone standing by his side. It was a waste of time, thinking about it. But he had to try.  
  
"Have you ever done this before?", Sherlock asked as he pressed the fifth button on the lift.  
  
"Hmm?", John asked, feeling a bit lost.  
  
"Um- Lestrade said you used to help him with some cases. Have you ever caught a murderer before?", Sherlock didn't dare to meet John's eyes, he simply stared ahead, as the lift seemed to take forever to reach the floor.  
  
"Yes. Yes I have. Lots of them. There was this time, a long time ago, when we dismantled a whole Asian smuggling organisation."  
  
"We?", Sherlock couldn't help but ask, a tiny little hope flashing inside of him, hoping that perhaps,  _perhaps._  
  
"Yeah. Me and my girlfriend at the time, Sarah."  
  
Oh.  
  
Sherlock nodded, some awkward sensation settling in his chest. He didn't say another word.  
  
John frowned. "There was this one time, four serial suicides apparently-"  
  
The lift opened and Sherlock certainly didn't want to hear the end of it. He didn't want to listen to John Watson talking about their first case together thinking that he had been the only one solving it. He dragged a deep breath, thinking about the nightmare of the night before and ordering himself not to be angry at John, because this was his fault. All of it was his fault. But God, how could John not remembering when he rescued him for the very first time? That impossible moment when, after knowing Sherlock for one day he just gave up on everything and killed a man for him? How could he not remember, if for Sherlock that moment was pierced into his mind, unmovable, untouched, unforgettable.  
  
Unforgettable.  
  
"Room 519", he said walking out of it, leaving John behind him.  
  
They stopped a little bit away from the door. John stood right next to Sherlock's side, their arms touching,  _irrelevant._  
  
"So what's the plan?"  
  
"Go to the rooftop. I'm certain that he will look for a way out and this is the last floor. Surely he'll go there. I need you there to catch him."  
  
John grimaced a little. "Rooftops are definitely not my thing."  
  
Sherlock didn't want to think too much about the sentence, so he chose to ignore it. "I need you there."  
  
John rolled his eyes. "Fine." It was interesting, it was as if that part of John's mind hasn't changed at all, all it took was for Sherlock to say something along the lines of "I need you" or "please", while making puppy eyes and John would always agree. Sherlock's lips twitched slightly while the doctor walked away.  
  
Sherlock counted in his mind the two minutes it would probably take John to get there before knocking on the door. "Yes?", a voice in the other side asked.  
  
"Room service", Sherlock replied.  
  
After a second of hesitance, the door opened just a bit and Sherlock immediately pushed it wide open. "Now, Mr. Wallace, are you going to confess the murder or will you make this more exciting?"  
  
The man's eyes widened immediately. "I- I don't know what you're talking about", he said, walking towards the window.  
  
"Oh I think you do."  
  
But the man didn't say anything else, he pointed at Sherlock with his gun before opening the window and  getting out of it. So predictable. Of course he would do such thing, and both him and John would leave him without a escape route. Seriously, what was wrong with the criminal classes lately?  
  
Sherlock went after him, a little smile on his face. God he missed this, running after a murderer, knowing that John would always be there to save the day. He couldn't help thinking about the headlines they'd make, their photographs together, the paparazzis standing in front of Baker Street asking questions once again, as if time had never seen passed, as if he hadn't died, as if he hadn't been captured, as if John hadn't forgotten. And so he kept running, Wallace already at a considerable distance from him, this man seemed to be good at climbing the stairs. He didn't know what was waiting for him, or rather who.  
  
John and his gun. He had nothing to be afraid of. He pictured it a lot, that look of determination in John's face whenever he set his eyes on the target, his hand as steady as he imagined it being before Afghanistan, his posture rigid, secure, ready to attack, to defend, to fight. Always so strong, always the captain showing itself. Sherlock admired those moments when John completely transformed himself, when John looked absolutely and genuinely happy.  
  
The last time he had seen that look on John's face, he hadn't jumped yet.  
  
He was running the stairs up to the rooftop when he heard the gunshot. He would have preferred John not to shot him but it was okay as long as they caught him. He walked fast towards the rooftop, climbed the last couple of stairs, ready to catch Wallace, and-  
  
_No. No no no no no no no no._  
  
"JOHN!", Sherlock yelled at the top of his lungs.


	17. Chapter 17

  
Sherlock's life was an endless compilation of solved cases. Complex puzzles, simple puzzles, hardly able to be called puzzles... he had solved them all. But there were moments, rare, unusual, unsettling moments when Sherlock made mistakes. No, no, not mistakes.  _Miscalculations._   
  
John Watson had been a miscalculation. John checking into Lacuna had been a miscalculation. To have John's blood in his hands while he desperately tried to make his brain react from the shock it had put itself into had certainly been a miscalculation.   
  
Sherlock ran desperately towards Wallace, a sudden wave of rage taking over him, so powerful and so overwhelming that it clouded Sherlock's vision, he didn't know what it was, it was like a desperate impulse to hurt, to harm the person that had dared to lay a finger on John, he couldn't explain it, he just felt the adrenaline running all over his body, pushing him forward, running after him, running faster, chasing him through the rooftop, until Wallace lost balance and tripped. Sherlock took this opportunity to reach him and without much thought, kicked him in the head with the butt of the gun.   
  
Wallace fell unconscious. He should consider himself lucky he wasn't dead.   
  
Meanwhile, John laid in the floor. Sherlock crouched in front of him, looking at the place where the blood was coming from. It had been a bullet in his right leg, close to his ankle, Sherlock rummaged desperately, ripping open the fabric of John's trousers on the area to check on the wound.   
  
"Sh- Sherlock!", John said surprised, he sounded out of breath.   
  
Sherlock tried to take a better look at it, there was a lot of blood coming from the injury, a lot. He realised his hands were tinted with red, the worst kind of red, the red that meant John was hurt. "John", he said, starting to feel on the verge of a panic attack. It was like when he had seen John wrapped in Semtex by the pool, but a thousand times worse.   
  
His hands were shaking, and he tried to control the tremor while he kept pressure on the wound, as time tickled by he could feel his throat closing, as if air was not enough, as if his lungs had forgotten to work. He identified the symptoms, he knew how to avoid them, he's had them constantly since returning to London, and he had learnt to control them, but trying to do so while having John's blood in his hands was impossible.   
  
"It's okay, Sherlock", John managed to say, his face flinching with pain. "It was just a scratch."   
  
"No, no, no, IT'S NOT OKAY!",  _breathe in, breathe out. Control. Control. Don't look at your hands, stop trembling. Stop this._   
  
He couldn't.   
  
"You're bleeding. John, you're bleeding", he said, the muscles of his face twitching almost involuntarily, forming an expression he could just describe as  _terrified_ .   
  
"It's okay, just- ah- put- pressure on it."   
  
"I- I-" his hand was shaking, barely able to apply pressure on John's wound, the blood kept flowing and while Sherlock knew enough about the human body to be aware that John wasn't in serious danger, that knowledge was put aside and invaded by the huge, deep, sickening fear of knowing that John was in danger, that he was in pain, that he was  _bleeding. "_ I- I can't!", he said with desperation, the air wasn't reaching his lungs anymore.   
  
While there wasn't a huge loss of blood, John's words were starting to come slowly, as if he was having trouble processing them. "Phone-", he grimaced with pain before he was able to finish the sentence.   
  
Sherlock rummaged for his phone, he didn't care if it would end up filled with blood. His fingers dialled the first number he could think of, and Lestrade picked up.   
  
"Hello?", Lestrade said calmly.   
  
"PHONE AN AMBULANCE!"   
  
He could hear the background noise of Scotland Yard, and then the worried voice of Lestrade. "Sherlock? What happened?"   
  
"PHONE AN AMBULANCE AND COME TO THE ROOFTOP OF THE LANDMARK HOTEL", he kept shouting at the phone, while his other hand kept trying to press on John's injury. The blood wasn't stopping at all and John's eyes were slowly closing and opening, and Sherlock's panic attack was taking over him.   
  
"Roof- rooftop?", Lestrade asked and Sherlock could feel the sudden panic invading his voice.   
  
"Just- just come", Sherlock replied, his voice suddenly dropping.   
  
"On our way", Lestrade said, sounding slightly different, strained, worried, probably he was rushing out of the office. Sherlock hung up.   
  
"John", he whispered, "John, stay awake, please. Please."   
  
Desperation strained his voice and he couldn't care less. John's eyes opened and he stared at Sherlock, forming a frown. Sherlock stared at him, unable to look away, feeling his hands trembling intensely over John's leg. Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to make his mind palace open up for him, to show him what he had to do, surely he had read about injuries like these before, he had a wide knowledge of the human body, not as extensive as John's, but extensive enough to know what he should be doing in a situation like this. And he was pretty certain it wasn't to be shaking like an idiot while asking the victim what to do.   
  
"It isn't working, Jesus, it isn't working, John!"   
  
John didn't reply and Sherlock was finding it harder and harder to breathe.   
  
What if he lost John? He had already lost him somehow, a year and a half worth of memories completely deleted from his mind, but this,  _this_ was a thousand times worse. He could survive knowing that John was somewhere, rebuilding his life, even if that meant he'd be unaware of how he had saved Sherlock and how Sherlock -he liked to believe- had saved him, it didn't matter, as long as John was well, Sherlock had prepared himself to let him go.   
  
But not once, not a single time, had he prepared himself for what it meant losing John, John dying, worse, John dying because of  _him._   
  
No. It couldn't be. Sherlock had not given up on a year and a half of his life, had not been tortured, had not been away from John, had not lost John's memories with him while protecting him only to lose him once again, permanently. He couldn't picture a life away from John Watson, away from those piercing, blue, protective eyes full of love and worry and so impossibly  _human,_ those eyes whose blue represented everything Sherlock wasn't, everything he couldn't even aspire to be. He couldn't.   
  
He sighed, feeling absolutely and utterly defeated.   
  
Was this how John felt when he fell?   
  
No, it couldn't be. It couldn't be because John didn't ever feel this deep fixation, this absorbing and consuming need to breathe the same air, to share the same space, to be close, to feel the light conducing through John's voice. John never felt such thing. John didn't know what it was like, to look at him and see nothing but light. He never felt that way for Sherlock. He was just a hobby for John, someone that could plug him off his boring existence and managed to give him something interesting to do, an entertainment, that was all he ever was for John.   
  
But Sherlock, Sherlock couldn't lose John. John was his  _friend doctor colleague partner in crime conductor of light_ .. John was  _brilliant amazing perfect extraordinary incredible unbelievable improbable_ ... John was  _everything_ .   
  
"I can't lose you", he found himself whispering without even intending to. It came out low and shaky, not even meant for John's ears, perhaps  a thought that desperately needed to be voiced out, that had been kept in the dark for far too long, that had never found its way out, a thought so desperate, so stupidly  _human,_ that Sherlock felt as if he had just been stripped bare, as if he had just opened his deepest, most intimate thoughts to a couple of closed eyes and an unresponsive face.   
  
It was a hateful feeling, yet somehow addictive. "John, I can't lose you. I haven't come this far for you just to see you die. I can't lose you. If I lose you I am lost too."   
  
His eyes threatened to fill themselves with tears and he couldn't allow that to happen, he had showed enough vulnerability already, he wasn't going to cry.   
  
The loss of blood was enough to make John unconscious, and Sherlock had nothing left to do but sit there, his eyes closed, breathing hard, trying to calm his own mind. His shoulders were slumped,  that lean, perfectly calculated posture that could only be associated to Sherlock Holmes had been replaced by a wretched shape that showed what he feared the most:  _failure._   
  
No, it didn't mean just failure, it meant something even worse, something Sherlock hated with every fibre of his being. It meant  _giving up._   
  
And so he sat there, his hand shaking over John's wound, as if its shaky unstable, hesitant touch was able to heal.  It was too windy, far too cold in the rooftop, so Sherlock took his Belstaff off and wrapped it around John's shoulders.   
  
After what could have possibly been a few minutes, or a thousand eternities, Lestrade broke into the rooftop, running. Sherlock looked up, trying to recover his breath but it was impossible.   
  
"Sh- Sherlock!", Lestrade asked cautiously as he arrived to the rooftop. He stopped there for a moment, his eyes taking in the scene.   
  
Sherlock didn't need his mind palace to be in full capacity to understand what Lestrade had thought about the call: that a suicidal thought had taken over Sherlock, pushing him towards the rooftop.  He could see it drawn all over Lestrade's expressions, Lestrade had known him at his best, had known him at his worst, and only he could know that it wouldn't be the first time. And a part of him kind of wished it was that, because  _that_ would have been preferable to  _this._   
  
Lestrade's eyes went down until they fell over John's unconscious body, "...shit", he murmured.   
  
He ran towards Sherlock, Sherlock looked up to him, his eyes stubbornly filling with tears once again, Jesus, how could he control that? "He's bleeding!", he exclaimed frantically. "Lestrade, he's bleeding!"   
  
Gently, Lestrade moved Sherlock's coat a bit and pushed Sherlock's trembling hand aside, to get a look at the injury.   
  
"He's bleeding", Sherlock repeated.   
  
"Sherlock, I need you to calm down, the paramedics are arriving, everything is going to be okay."   
  
"No it isn't. " Sherlock's voice broke. "He- he's dying."   
  
Lestrade dragged a deep breath. "No, he isn't, don't say that, don't think that. He is going to be alright."   
  
"What if he isn't?"   
  
Lestrade fell silent.   
  
The sound of fabric rubbing against concrete put Sherlock's senses on alert, he jerked his head to look behind him and realised that Wallace was waking up. He had completely forgotten Wallace had been the one who put them there in the first place.   
  
A maddening, sickening force took over Sherlock and he stood up, his legs no longer shaking, his brain once again rushing at a thousand miles per hour and it took him two long strides before he was face to face with Wallace, and his hand wasn't unsteady , wasn't trembling, wasn't rickety anymore as it met Wallace's jaw.   
  
Wallace fell once again and Sherlock kept throwing punches at him, one after the other, over and over, Lestrade's shouts were a distant sound, his ears were ringing, his head felt as if it was going to explode. Finally, he felt a hand holding his wrist tightly as Lestrade pulled him apart from Wallace. "Sherlock stop!", he shouted.   
  
Sherlock struggled a bit under his touch, but finally calmed himself. Wallace was laying on the floor, unable to move, the only movement coming as he squirmed with pain.   
  
Sherlock finally recovered his breath as he said, "Lestrade, here's your killer. I do hope he gets what he deserves", the way he said it was as if he had never lost his composure at all. He turned to the side to look at the paramedics putting John in the gurney, John's eyes were open now.   
  
"I'm coming with him", Sherlock said to the paramedics.   
  
"Sorry sir, how are you related to the patient?"   
  
"He's my- my-"  _blogger best friend partner person I love and care about most in the world everything_ "friend. Please."   
  
Something in his eyes, in his posture, in his shaking hands gave him away, because the paramedic looked at him up and down before nodding and allowing him into the ambulance.   
  
John was awake, but barely so. His eyes were open, but they were a bit blurry. Every time he tried to talk he would grimace, as if he couldn't quite focus his brain on producing words because the pain was too intense. Sherlock sat next to him and stared, still unable to regulate his breathing. He cleaned his hand on a handkerchief before he placed a finger over John's lips.   
  
"Don't", Sherlock said, and he had to clear his throat, "don't say anything. You're going to be okay, I promise you", he whispered.   
  
John looked down to Sherlock's finger and then up and their eyes met, and he simply nodded, without saying another word.   
  
Sherlock smiled at him, a weak, desperate smile. His eyes were starting to fill with tears and he was having trouble understanding why he seemed to be unable to control his own emotions today.   
  
He brought that same hand to rub John's head, his fingers slowly caressing the scalp, moving and moving and moving. He focused on that, on the feeling of John's hair in his fingers, instead of thinking about John's face of pain, about the paramedics trying to check on the wound, about the blood, John's blood, still falling, he focused on the movements of his hand, but he did manage to get a glimpse of John's eyes closing once again, the only sound a hum of tranquility, leaning his head against Sherlock's fingers, before he fell asleep once again.   
  
*******   
  
Sherlock leaned against the window, his hand clenching and unclenching into fists. It was a blur, everything that had happened recently, he saw it passing as if he wasn't even there, as if he hadn't been the one living it.   
  
They were lucky he was feeling far too tired to protest and demand them to allow him into John's bedroom. He felt he didn't have the energy at the moment, as if all the adrenaline he had felt when John had been shot had suddenly abandoned him and left him drained. He needed, he needed, he didn't even know what he needed, he couldn't get sleep and sitting still was definitely not an option.   
  
He closed his eyes, feeling the cold of the glass, the city right in front of his eyes. They were in Bart's. He never wanted to come back to Bart's, not like this.   
  
"He's going to be alright, Sherlock", a voice said behind him.   
  
Sherlock didn't turn to find Lestrade. He stood still, his forehead pressed against the glass. "It's all my fault."   
  
Lestrade sat at the sofa next to the window with a groan, clearly he was exhausted too. "Yes, yes it is."   
  
Sherlock did turn this time, looking at Lestrade with a frown.   
  
Lestrade's facial expressions shifted from worried to angry and Sherlock prepared himself for the preach that was about to come. "You could have told us where the killer was. We would have found him and John would be safe and sound."   
  
Sherlock scoffed.   
  
"No, don't use that, you know we would have. John will be alright, but I hope you realise that you put his life in danger just to prove you were clever. As if we didn't know that already."   
  
Sherlock dragged a deep breath and closed his eyes once again. He hated this almost visceral feeling of guilt that was threatening to eat him alive, and most of all, he hated the fact that Lestrade was  _right._   
  
He slumped himself on the sofa, next to Lestrade and murmured a desperate, broken "Yes".   
  
Lestrade frowned, "Excuse me?"   
  
"You're right. This is all my fault. Has been from the very start. I've done nothing but causing pain to John Watson, and putting him in danger", his voice was very, very low. "He doesn't deserve this."   
  
Lestrade seemed to get the turn this conversation was taking and shook his head, his face changed from anger to worry surprisingly fast, "Sherlock, don't. Don't be so hard on yourself. I know what you're thinking, and it'll never be a good idea. You've seen what being apart from him has done to him-", he hesitated for a moment,  "and to you."   
  
Sherlock closed his eyes once again, trying to school his face into suppressing any kind of emotion it might show. "There's a reason why he chose to get my memory erased from his mind", somehow, he found, he wasn't still over this, the wound hadn't healed yet. He wondered if it ever would.   
  
"Because you weren't there!", Lestrade said, rising his voice. "Do you really think that the solution would be to leave?"   
  
"I- I", he brought himself to say it, "I have to, before it's too late."   
  
"It's already too late, Sherlock. Leaving is not an option."   
  
"There's nothing else I can do, don't you see? As long as I'm around he'll always be in danger. I can't do that to him, Lestrade, I can't."   
  
"That's his choice to make. And he took the risk."   
  
"I don't want to risk losing him", Sherlock knew he had never said this to anybody, and he never imagined he'd be sitting at the waiting room of a hospital saying it to Lestrade. But it didn't matter, he felt the need to say it.   
  
"You'll always run that risk, one way or another. He does too, and you know, more than anyone, that that's what he likes."   
  
Sherlock fell silent. Why did Lestrade keep being right about everything today? Why did he seem to be wrong about everything today?   
  
"You can't leave him, Sherlock. He needs you."   
  
"I couldn't even if I wanted to", was all Sherlock replied, and he meant it, with his heart and his soul, he meant it. He closed his eyes once again, they were burning, burning with pain, with unshed tears, with far too much repressed emotion that was looking for a way out.   
  
He couldn't sit still. He stood up and started pacing from one side to the other of the room, his mind was clouded, unable to think properly. "I need to see him!", he groaned.   
  
Lestrade rolled his eyes. "You know quite well that the doctors are checking on him, just wait for a while."   
  
Sherlock kept walking frantically while he complained about the slow service and the fact that John's state hadn't been reported to them yet, Lestrade tried to keep his eyes fixed on the book he was pretending to read but finally stood up, furrowing his eyebrows. "Sherlock Holmes, if you don't stop talking and stand still, I swear to you I will phone to Scotland Yard and order an immediate imprisonment for you. Would you like that to happen?"   
  
Sherlock looked down and surprisingly enough, sat still and quiet.   
  
Lestrade smiled to himself, clearly he hadn't expected that to work out.   
  
A few minutes later, a nurse came in. "Mr. Holmes?", she asked.   
  
Sherlock stood up immediately, his face flinching with worry. "Yes?", he asked almost breathlessly.   
  
"Dr. Watson has been asking for you, he wants to see you."   
  
Sherlock sighed with relief and turned to look at Lestrade with a small smile. "Yes. Yes", he said, feeling all the tension leaving his body all of the sudden because John was  _okay_ and he was  _alive_ and he had asked specifically to see  _him._   
  
He walked towards John's room door, knocked softly on the door before opening. "John?", he said anxiously.


	18. Chapter 18

_Tremor? Intermittent._   
  
_Vital signs? Apparently good._   
  
_There are bags under his eyes. But his breathing is regular. He's pale, but his eyes are open, he's breathing by himself._   
  
_He's alive. Alive. Alive._   
  
_He's smiling. Why is he smiling?_   
  
_"_ Hi", John said softly.   
  
Sherlock almost ran towards him, his brain working too fast trying to check on every single signal of John's state, and he collapsed on the chair placed next to his bed, feeling emotionally and physically drained, while a huge wave of relief invaded him.   
  
"Are you okay?", John asked, in that same tone he'd used before.   
  
Sherlock looked up and their eyes met. John was smiling, John was smiling with his eyes. "Are  _you_ okay?", he asked, almost breathlessly, overwhelmed by John's presence, by John's consciousness.   
  
John nodded, but his nod was interrupted by a grimace. "Yeah", he said with a rough voice, "was given lots of pain killers so that's soothed the pain a bit. Still, won't be able to walk properly for a while...", he looked down while he said it.   
  
Sherlock bent his head down and shut his eyes closed. "I'm sorry", he whispered.   
  
John frowned at him. Sherlock opened his eyes, looked up and his eyes met John's. They were so blue, so wide, so full of life that Sherlock felt propelled towards them, as if they were magnets, calling him in, and he was unable to walk back, unable to stand back.   
  
When he looked into those eyes, he realised that Lestrade really, really was right: it was too late for him to walk away, for both of them. He couldn't imagine a life without John Watson and now days had tickled by and John Watson apparently found it hard to stay away from him too. It was impossible. He would have to live with the consequences of that decision later.  _Later._   
  
"No", John replied softly, shaking his head. "Don't be."   
  
"This is all my fault", Sherlock said, feeling infinitely small below John's gaze.   
  
"It isn't. It isn't. I chose this. You gave me the chance and I took it. And it was- it was worth it. I'd do it again, if you asked me to."   
  
"I never intended to put you in danger", Sherlock said shaking his head and looking down.   
  
"I don't mind. I've been through worse things. If this- if this means avoiding more innocent lives to be taken, I will go through any danger without a single doubt. We did- we did get him, didn't we?", John raised an eyebrow and Sherlock's lips twitched up in a small smile which John replicated.   
  
"I did. Yes. He should feel lucky he's alive."   
  
John frowned and stared at Sherlock once again, as if he was some kind of undecipherable puzzle he was desperate to find the missing pieces of. Sherlock could do nothing but look down, it was better than being drawn into those eyes. "Good", John murmured.   
  
Sherlock had a thousand different words prepared, words of apology, of regret, of worry, of pain, but all of them faded away from his brain when John reached a hand tentatively, opened it and placed it on the edge of his bed, right in front of Sherlock.   
  
Sherlock blinked, looked at the hand, then up to John, who was smiling softly at him, why did he keep smiling? Right, right, the painkillers, it was all because of the painkillers, then down to his hand again, and hesitantly, shakily reached out his own hand to clasp John's.   
  
It was soft and perfect and he could feel John's pulse, John's pulse that meant he was alive and he was here and he was taking Sherlock's hand.   
  
"The doctor told me to stay here for the rest of the night", John said bitterly, looking down at their joined hands, "that they'd allow me out in the morning. You can- you know, go home and get some rest."   
  
Sherlock couldn't help staring at them too. He shook his head. "No, no. I'm staying here."   
  
"Sherlock, you don't have to."   
  
"No I don't. But I want to. End of discussion", he said shifting his chair to get closer to John's bed. John hummed with agreement.   
  
John told him the wound hadn't been too deep but that it had compromised some of his muscles, which meant that he'd be unable to move it for a while and then go back to that hideous cane, grimacing as he said it.   
  
"At least this time it isn't psychosomatic", Sherlock replied.   
  
"How did you know it was psychosomatic?", John replied, widening his eyes.   
  
"You used to have a therapist and didn't suffer any injury on your leg, you use the cane but only when you're under a lot of stress or when your shoulder is hurting, so definitely psychosomatic", he replied remembering how once, a lot of time ago, he had made the same deduction while they were sitting on a cab going to their first case together.   
  
John tightened the hold of his hand and nodded. "Brilliant", he whispered while he yawned. "Sorry", he said after the yawn, "painkillers are working I suppose".   
  
Sherlock smiled at him but then looked out as he aimed to stand up. "I should let you sleep. I'll be at the waiting room if you need anything."   
  
John didn't let go of his hand, instead he shook his head. "No, no", Sherlock looked at him with a frown. "Stay. Please?"   
  
"Here?", Sherlock asked.   
  
"Yes", John replied decidedly.   
  
Sherlock sat down and without much thought, bent over and roamed his fingers through John's hair, in a fast but soft caress. John closed his eyes and leaned against their touch. "Sleep, John."   
  
"Goodnight, Sherlock."   
  
*******   
"No."   
  
"Yes."   
  
"No."   
  
"Yes."   
  
"I can stay here all day, Sherlock", John said, getting angry. Lestrade came into the room and they both turned to look at him.   
  
"Lestrade, would you make him see reason?", Sherlock asked, looking annoyed.   
  
"About what?", Lestrade said looking between them both.   
  
"Sherlock's saying I should go stay at Baker Street while I recover. I don't want to bother-"   
  
"I told you, it's not a bother!", Sherlock said waving his hands in the air.   
  
"It feels like one!", John replied.   
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John, it's the least I can do, this was my fault."   
  
"How many times do I have to tell you-"   
  
"I agree with Sherlock", Lestrade cut John off and John turned to look at him with a  _'traitor'_ face while Sherlock smiled smugly and raised his eyebrows. "John, you need to rest, and knowing you, that's the thing you'd do the less. Sherlock is not the best option-"   
  
"Excuse me?"   
  
"-but at least he'll keep an eye on you and make sure that your leg recovers completely."   
  
"See? Even Lestrade understands how good this idea is!"   
  
Lestrade glared at Sherlock but didn't dwell on it. Honestly, it didn't sound like a good idea, he knew this was only going to bring them trouble to one another, but the other option was John being alone and that idea was even worse, so Lestrade had to support Sherlock in this one, even though he was still pissed at Sherlock for not telling him about the murderer.   
  
John stared at Sherlock and bit his lip, considering. After a while, he finally nodded. "Fine. But if you get tired of me, you can't complain."   
  
"I'm certain that it won't happen", Sherlock said, convinced and John smiled at him.   
  
*******   
  
The door didn't want to open. Sherlock had already introduced the key, but it didn't want to open. His hands were shaking. Perhaps that was why. He felt John's gaze behind his back, heavy, piercing.   
  
John had to use crutches and was recommended, no, forced not to use his leg for a week or so. Sherlock was in charge of keeping an eye on him, and he couldn't help feeling the anxiety spreading all over his body, a good kind of anxiety. The kind of anxiety that he had come to know when he met John Watson.   
  
John, back at Baker Street. It seemed like the earth was turning around the sun once again- or something of the sorts, Sherlock couldn't quite remember how it was. He had recently read about the Obliquity of the Ecliptic, but he was finin the new piece of knowledge useless and it was in process of being erased from his mind palace.   
  
He knew it was only temporary, or perhaps not. Perhaps he would manage to convince John to move back with him, but for now it would only be a week. He would take whatever he was given. If it meant having the chance to be right next to John, to go back to those old times when Sherlock heard nothing but the slow pressing of John's fingers in the laptop's keyboard, a sound he hadn't found relaxing at all up to that point, while he closed his eyes an laid in the couch, trying to solve mysteries. He missed that. He missed opening his eyes to find John smiling, submerged in the story he was writing, his eyes sparkling, looking genuinely  _happy._   
  
Sherlock was uncomprehensive in the face of the happy, but he was almost certain that that feeling that rose in his chest in those moments of comfortable silence was the closest he'd ever felt to being happy.   
  
Now John's eyes didn't shine so bright. Neither did Sherlock's.   
  
"Want me to help?", Sherlock turned to look at John, who was staring at him with amusement.   
  
_Keep it together._ "No", Sherlock turned back to face the door and closed his eyes, ordering his heart to stop from racing and his hands from rushing. "I got this."   
  
Finally, the damn door opened, and Sherlock smiled at John with a soft ha! and held it open so he could get in, John looked at him before entering and whispered a "ta."   
  
Sherlock nodded and smiled, as John passed him by.   
  
Then the door of the first floor opened, and Mrs. Hudson looked at them with the biggest smile on her face. "My boys...", she said with a smile. She threw a quick, questioning look at Sherlock.  _Does he remember?_ , she silently asked. Sherlock shook his head softly and she sighed, her attention turning to John, he looked at him up and down. "John, good gracious, what happened to you?"   
  
John looked down at his injury. The wound was vandaged, but to secure it, most of the lower half of his leg was vandaged. It looked as if something absolutely terrible had happened to him, which, for Sherlock kind of had been.  "I got shot."   
  
"What?", she asked, perplexed. "How?", she said, covering her mouth with her hand.   
  
John smiled, and Sherlock turned to look at him, confused. "Chasing after a murderer."   
  
Sherlock wasn't sure if it was because o the terrible lighting of the hallway, but he could have sworn that John's eyes sparkled for a second. He frowned.   
  
"Is everything okay?", Mrs. Hudson asked.   
  
John kept smiling and nodded.  _Stop smiling John._ "Although I'll bother you for a couple of weeks. Sherlock said he'd take care of me while I recovered."   
  
Now it was the turn of Mrs. H's eyes to brighten up. "Oh", she smiled and turned to Sherlock, a sweet expressiondrawn on her face. "Wonderful. I love company. And I'm certain Sherlock does too",  _especially if it's you,_ Sherlock could almost hear the rest of the sentence.   
  
"Yes. Wonderful", Sherlock said in a rush, starting to feel uncomfortable with this conversation. "I'm sorry to interrupt your conversation but you can't stand on your feet for too long. Come, John, I'll help you up the stairs."   
  
Mrs Hudson turned towards her door, "how about I get you boys a cuppa?"   
  
"That would be lovely, Mrs. Hudson, thank you very much", John replied as he limped towards the stairs.   
  
Mrs. Hudson winked at Sherlock and Sherlock rolled his eyes, before she entered back to her flat.   
  
"Sorry about that", Sherlock said.   
  
John smiled as he shook his head. "She's incredible."   
  
"You wouldn't believe it."   
  
John started to climb up the stairs and Sherlock realized it really wasn't working. Every time he jumped towards the next stair he flinched with pain, no matter how much of his weight he balanced on the crutches. Sherlock sighed, "Here, let me help you", he said softly.   
  
He stood in front of John, and couldn't help but notice that John was staring fixedly at him, without saying a word. Sherlock felt as if he could hear what John was thinking and he stared back. Slowly, he leaned forward and grabbed John's crutches from him, without taking his eyes of his face. John lost balance for a second but Sherlock used his other hand to hold his wrist. "Grab the coat", he told John. John held onto Sherlock's coat while Sherlock threw the crutches aside.   
  
Then he placed himself next to John, wrapping an arm around John's wrist. John gasped and looked at Sherlock with widened eyes. Sherlock took John's apparently  _too shocked to move_ arm and wrapped it over his neck. "Lean on me", Sherlock whispered into John's ear.   
  
He could feel the moment when John's weight fell onto him. He held the shirt above his wrist and tried to impulse John up while they climbed, step by step. John leant on him and that didn't seem to stifle the pain in his leg. "Good", Sherlock softly said.   
  
It took them a while to climb the 17 steps and by the time they did so, John looked worn out. It made sense, he hadn't gotten a proper night of sleep, no matter how much he said he had actually slept, Sherlock saw the signs clear in his body that it hadn't been enough.   
  
They walked together towards the couch, John leaned his head against Sherlock's neck, clearly tired. Sherlock leaned down and smelled at John's head a little. Shampoo, a bit of product for the hair, cologne, and in the bottom of them all, that smell that was unmistakably  _John's._ He breathed deeply as they reached the couch.   
  
He helped him down and kept his hand on John's waist for slightly longer than necessary, when his hand retreated, John looked down, following it with his sight. Then he looked up and his eyes reached Sherlock's.   
  
Sherlock swallowed and John looked down to see the bob of his Adam's apple. He licked his lower lip.   
  
Sherlock could feel it. He could feel the tension of the moment, the unspoken need for one another, so deep, so intense. He dragged a deep breath and closed his eyes.   
  
He didn't see the moment John leaned closer. He felt John's breath close to his and he opened his eyes to see that their noses were almost touching. John wanted this. John Watson, after grieving, after enduring his loss -well, not really enduring-, after solving crimes with him, after getting to know the real Sherlock, after erasing him from his mind,  _he wanted this._ It was impossible. Yet here they were.   
  
_Perhaps it's because he erased you from his mind._ A voice inside Sherlock's mind said.   
  
And it made sense somehow. He had never seen those kind of  _reactions_ when John and him lived together.  _Lie._ Fine, fine, he had seen those reactions every once in a while, but he always tossed them apart, because,  _because?_ why had he done it? he clearly wanted to, John did too, what had stopped him?   
  
Sherlock's answer came in a rush to him: he had been  _afraid._   
  
Afraid.   
  
Sherlock Holmes had been afraid. Preposterous.   
  
But true.   
  
Their friendship was the most important thing in the world for him. The old John would laugh at his face and say that it was a huge load of bullshit, but it wasn't. Sherlock cared about John deeply and he knew that he would drive him away somehow. In the end he did. How would it have been if he had ever acted upon those feelings? Would have John erased him from his mind? Certainly, would that have been the only thing John would have done? Probably not.   
  
_Delete that thought._   
  
So no. He couldn't risk their friendship. He cared -yes, cared- too much about it to ruin it.   
  
Except he already had ruined it.   
  
What did he have to lose now?   
  
But.  _But. Perhaps it's because he erased you from his mind._ The thought came back to him in a rush.   
  
This was wrong. In a thousand different ways, it was wrong. For John, he was someone he had met two months ago, someone exciting, misterious, fascinating, but that was all. He didn't want to be with John like this.   
  
Part of the reason why he wanted to be with John was because it wasn't like  _this._ Because they were both aware of what this friendship could turn into, but they never acted on it because they didn't want to ruin it.   
  
But this was all he had from John. There was no turning back, no time machine to go back and stop him from doing it, there was nothing to be done. And he was still John, caretaker, smart, perfect John. Just with less memories, but the same John he had fallen in love with.   
  
_Jesus._ Fallen in love with?   
  
Sherlock knew he had. He just, he had never admitted it before, never allowed the thought from clouding his mind. Now it was unstoppable, his brain desperately trying to work around it, trying to cover it up, to delete it, but it was impossible, it was impossible and he didn't care at all and he was in love with John Watson.   
  
But he didn't know if he was in love with  _this_ John Watson.   
  
He was being so stupid, why was he being so stupid? Why was he overthinking this so much?   
  
_Because you know this means more to you than it does to him._   
  
That settled it, didn't it?   
  
He came back to reality, John was eyeing him expectantly, waiting for faintest sign of agreement from Sherlock's behalf. Sherlock knew that in that second their past, their present and their future was in his hands. Give up or walk away. None of them particularly appealed him. Except one did, except one extremely, deeply did.   
  
He took a deep breath and moved his face apart from John.   
  
He could see the instant, piercing disappointment in John's eyes. "I'll bring you your crutches."   
  
John blinked and nodded, without saying anything else. Sherlock fetched them and left them at the coffee table, in front of the couch, just in case John wanted to run away and get his memory erasen once again to forget about all of this.   
  
A weird silence settled between the two of them. Sherlock stood in front of John, carefully avoiding eye contact, which was fine because it seemed like it was what John was trying to do too.   
  
"Wo-hoo!", Sherlock sighed with relieved, he had never felt more thankful for Mrs. Hudson's timing. She walked in carrying a tray with two cuppas and two sandwiches. "I supposed you haven't eaten yet, and you must be exhausted."   
  
Sherlock genuinely smiled at her and passed John the cuppa. John grabbed it without looking at Sherlock and carefully avoiding their fingers from brushing. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."   
  
She nodded, then seemed to get the vibe off the environment, or to get it all wrong, but she nodded at Sherlock, "well, I'll leave you to it. Have fun!"   
  
John replied with a snort.   
  
They ate and drank in silence.   
  
When they were finished, John yawned and simply said "tired."   
  
Sherlock looked at his mug. "You can use my bed. If- if you want to."   
  
John turned to look at him with an unreadable expression in his face.   
  
Sherlock seemed to understand the ennui behin that sentence and cleared his throat. "I mean, I probably won't use it tonight. Don't feel like sleeping."   
  
John shook his head. "Don't want to bother", it came out sharply.   
  
"It's not a bother."   
  
"Sherlock. No. Thank you, but no."   
  
Sherlock nodded, John turned his back to him, moving his leg slowly and wincing a bit with pain, which Sherlock decided to ignore, it wasn't going to help them at all if he helped him at the moment.   
  
He grabbed the blanket from John's chair and softly, slowly, placed it over John's body. John reached out a hand and covered Sherlock's with his own. Sherlock stood still. "Thank you", John whispered.   
  
Sherlock nodded once again. "Goodnight, John", he said, reluctantly moving his hand away from John's hold. John humed.   
  
Sherlock grabbed the mugs and took them to the sink, then, from there, he turned to look at John. He hadn't fallen asleep yet, but he was about to, he could tell by his breathing. He paced slowly and silently towards him, and without givin it too much thought, placed a kiss on the top of John's head. "Sleep tight."   
  
John dragged a deep breath. Sherlock thought he had fallen asleep, but as he was walking towards his room, he heart a soft, "you too."   
  
Sherlock closed the door behind him and leaned on it. This was too hard. This was far too hard. He didn't wan to see that disappointed look on John's eyes ever again and he hated himself for being the cause of it. He sighed. "It's for the best", he reminded himself, closing his eyes. "it's for the best."


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay, life keeps getting in the way, don't you hate it when this happens? Enjoy!

Sherlock woke up without even remembering when he fell asleep in the first place. He had gotten on the bed at some point throughout the night and couldn't stop thinking over and over, until apparently he fell asleep. He hummed in contentment. As much as he liked to pretend he didn't, he actually enjoyed a good night's sleep and he felt like he had recharged the energy he had lost after what happened to John.   
  
He sat up in a rush, his eyes widening.   
  
_John._   
  
John was here, in Baker Street, just like the old times.   
  
He stood up, grabbed his dressing gown, went to the loo, tried to untangle his messy curls a bit and went to the living room, trying to look as immaculate as always. He didn't understand why he felt the need to look like that at the moment, he never really cared about the way John saw him.   
  
John was deeply asleep when he walked in, his leg in a position that certainly couldn't be comfortable and that probably would end up hurting him even more, but his face seemed peaceful, so peaceful, a sharp contrast in comparison to his expressions two nights ago when he had a nightmare.   
  
Sherlock stopped for a moment and examined John's face. He seemed to be sleeping so calmly despite the position of his leg or the thin blanket covering his body in the middle of a cold early morning. He didn't flinch, his breathing wasn't ragged, his hand wasn't trembling, it was just like things were fine. As if he felt happy in Baker Street.   
  
Which obviously couldn't be true, mostly because John didn't remember a single thing of Baker Street and it wasn't exactly  _home_ for him anymore.   
  
Sherlock realised that he had been staring for far too long, and blinked again, looking somewhere else, noticing he was smiling. He certainly hadn't allowed that smile to draw in his face. He couldn't help feeling that this was  _right,_ that John being in Baker Street was  _right,_ that everything was falling into place.   
  
He made some tea, carefully remembering how John liked it (milk, no sugar) and sitting at the coffee table with the mug in his hand to wake up John. He didn't want to, Jesus, it was probably what he wanted the less in the world, but it really seemed like the leg was in the wrong place and he didn't want the pain to get any worse.   
  
He placed a hand on John's shoulder, "John", he said softly.   
  
John stirred a bit but didn't wake up.   
  
"John", Sherlock tried once again, grasping his shoulder just a little tighter.   
  
John didn't want to wake up apparently. Sherlock squeezed his shoulder once again.   
  
And that was when he felt it. The hole that had brought John to Sherlock in the very first place. The hole that started every single one of John's insecurities, the scar that drove John over the edge, that made him sleep with a gun next to him, that gave him the psychosomatic limp.  _The scar that brought him to Sherlock._   
  
The scar was covered by the soft, thin fabric of John's t-shirt, but Sherlock could certainly feel the hole in which John's life changed forever.   
  
For the better.   
  
No. For the worse.   
  
Definitely for the worse.   
  
Sherlock ran his fingers through that place, slowly caressing that soft spot of John's shoulder, that place that John desperately hid over and over, that scar that John despised, but that Sherlock always felt curious about. It sounded selfish, but how could he hate that scar at all? If  _that_ hadn't happened,  _this_ wouldn't have happened.   
  
_If that hadn't happened, John wouldn't have erased me from his mind._   
  
_If that hadn't happened, I probably wouldn't even be alive._   
  
Sherlock kept running his fingers through it unconsciously as he thought, just a soft caress of his index, exploring the bruised skin, the hole that was never completely filled back, that left John with a permanent mark.   
  
At least that scar was more permanent than John's memories of Sherlock.   
  
Sherlock blinked back to reality.   
  
John's eyes were open and he was staring at him. "Sherlock", he whispered as his eyes met Sherlock's.   
  
Sherlock's hand retreated immediately. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry", he couldn't quite meet John's eyes again so he looked down. How on earth had this happened?, he knew how much John loathed that damn scar, how much he tried to keep it out of sight, to forget about its existence, and the first thing he does is touching it? Jesus, what the hell was wrong with him? He had just ruined everything. Everything.   
  
"No", John replied, "no, it's- it's okay", John said and Sherlock looked at him once again, confused. John looked confused as well, as if he hadn't expected it to be okay, yet he found it was. Sherlock hesitated, at a loss of words.   
  
They fell silent once again. John cleared his throat, but when he spoke his voice wasn't softer than a whisper, "you- you can touch it again, if you want."   
  
Sherlock looked at him enquiringly. John didn't do this, John didn't accept himself to be examined, to be looked at, touched at, he didn't allow his vulnerabilities to be exposed. How was he allowing  _this?_ Did he trust Sherlock that much?, did he trust him with  _this?_   
  
Impossible.   
  
He reached out his hand and touched the scar once again, but his eyes didn't focus on John's shoulder but on John's face. John was looking at him intently.   
  
Sherlock swallowed and slowly brushed John's shoulder with his thumb. Over and over. The silence fell heavy over them, the only sound coming from the rustle of Sherlock's skin and the fabric of John's shirt.   
  
John smiled at him, he didn't look uncomfortable or angry. Sherlock stared at him, puzzled, how was it possible that John was feeling at ease at this moment? if he ever got to see Sherlock's scars...   
  
_Delete that thought._   
  
Sherlock moved his hand away, feeling like this was probably crossing the line. What line? he hadn't the faintest. He tried as best as he could to hide his confusion and smiled back at John. Pretend nothing had happened, they were specialists at that.   
  
"Good morning. I made you some tea."   
  
John tried to sit up, but he grimaced as soon as he did. "Shit", he muttered with effort. Evidently his leg was aching, complaining for the nasty position John had left it in while he slept in.   
  
Sherlock stood up and moved towards him to try to help him but John shook his head immediately, silently asking him not to. Apparently that was crossing the line. And so Sherlock stood awkwardly in front of him as John tried to find a way to move his leg without dying of pain. Finally he found a mildly comfortable position to sit and Sherlock gave him his cuppa, which he sipped at happily.   
  
"Thank you", John said as he finished the tea, putting the cup next to where Sherlock was sitting, in the coffee table. John turned to look at Sherlock and smiled, "not just for the cuppa, for, for everything."   
  
Sherlock shook his head, this was wrong, John shouldn't be thanking him, what could he possibly be thankful for? Sherlock kept messing up his life in a thousand different ways, how could John be thankful for that. "Don't", was all he could say, and he meant it.   
  
John didn't thank him any longer and they fell silent.   
  
"Do you- would you like some breakfast? I think I don't have anything worth cooking in the fridge except for some human thumbs and eyes, but I could try something", John was staring at him wide-eyed, "-something that doesn't involve human thumbs and eyes", he corrected himself.   
  
John smiled and shook his head, "tea's good for now, maybe later."   
  
Sherlock nodded, feeling slightly anxious, Jesus why was John making him so anxious lately? "Alright then", he aimed to walk towards the bathroom because he really needed a shower when John said, "wait!"   
  
He turned to look at him and realised that John was looking a bit uncomfortable, no, not uncomfortable,  _embarrassed._ He didn't want to admit he was in pain, so Sherlock saved him from it. "I'll bring you some paracetamol", John nodded and smiled, looking at Sherlock with something akin to wonder. "Anything else?"   
  
John shook his head, "no, just-", he hesitated for a moment, "just thank you."   
  
Sherlock didn't reply.   
  
*******   
  
Sherlock ignored every single message from Lestrade. Yes, he knew he was in the middle of a very serious case and that his help was needed more than ever, but he couldn't quite focus on it right now. Focusing on the case was what was having John in here with a bullet right through his leg, so no, he wasn't going to focus on the case, at least until John was fully recovered and able to go with him to the crime scenes and help him through it.   
  
Sherlock stopped thinking right at that moment. He was assuming far too many things. He was taking for granted that John would like to go out in cases with him again, which certainly wasn't much of a possibility after what had happened, and even if he did, Sherlock would be constantly worried about his safety. God, when had all of this become so complicated? Wasn't it easier when Sherlock simply took John for granted and thought he'd follow him everywhere?   
  
Well, that had certainly been a mistake.   
  
No, not mistake,  _miscalculation._   
  
They spent the whole day in Baker Street, there wasn't anywhere else John could go at the moment anyway and Sherlock wasn't going anywhere without him so it certainly was the only choice. Mrs Hudson brought them breakfast --thankfully, since Sherlock seriously didn't have anything else than those thumbs and eyes, which he should probably dispose of--, they ordered some Thai rice for lunch and it was so much that they had enough for dinner. They talked a lot too, mostly about the cases.   
  
Except during dinner. Sherlock played over and over with the idea inside his head, trying to gather the courage to ask. John was eating happily and apparently paying no mind to Sherlock's inner struggle.   
  
Finally, he decided to do it.   
  
"So, what were you doing before we met?"   
  
There. He said it. He was asking John for that year and a half before his return. He wanted to know what John had done in his absence, even if John didn't remember his absence in the first place. This was the only way.   
  
John frowned for a second and looked down at his plate, picking some with his sticks. "Um, not much. I was working hard on the ER, it had been a busy couple of months, and that was it."   
  
"You didn't work anywhere else?"   
  
John shook his head, "not really. Remember how I told you about the shoulder surgery? Of course you remember, it was how I lost my memory of you, sorry about that by the way. Well, it took some recovery, it was a long, long recovery, but finally after six months or so the pain was gone, and except for the intermittent tremor, which I was already used to, it's as if nothing had ever happened. Well, not nothing, I forgot I met you in the first place."   
  
Sherlock shook the thought away. It really was very common that a patient forgot about a certain memory with the use of anaesthesia, but he didn't think that John would remember the lie he had told him before, about them meeting on 2010 and solving a case together. Well, it wasn't technically a lie, was it?   
  
"How did the accident happen?", Sherlock asked not wanting to know, because of course, he already knew how it had.   
  
John shrugged. "I was walking towards Barts and I crashed against a cyclist. It was my fault I think, I can't quite remember."   
  
"Were you working at Barts?", Sherlock was pushing it just a little, perhaps he might remember, perhaps John would get a faint idea of what had happened, perhaps he would associate Barts with him in some way.   
  
It suddenly took Sherlock by surprise, how desperately he wanted John to remember. He felt the need, digging unto his chest, burying itself right next to his heart, he needed John to remember. He didn't care if John remembered the fall, if it meant that he would  _remember_ .   
  
John shook his head and thought for a moment "...no, I think I wasn't. Jesus, I can't remember. I think I was- oh yes, I was helping  _someone,_ Lestrade I think? Yes, Lestrade with a case", John rubbed his forehead while Sherlock examined him closely, "I- I can't remember anything else, I remember I was in the lab, and then in the street...", his expression grew a little bit worried and Sherlock had to look away, it was physically painful seeing John trying so hard to remember.   
  
Silence fell, but as usual, John was the one to break it after a while. "What about you?", he asked softly.   
  
"Hm?", Sherlock turned his attention once again towards John, who had pushed the plate away without finishing it, as if he was out of appetite.   
  
"What were you up to, you know, before we met, for the second time apparently?", John asked with a smile.   
  
Oh.   
  
Oh no.   
  
_Think_ . He didn't know why he was finding so difficult to tell this to John, it wasn't as if he was going to remember anyway, but still, being in front of John Watson and explaining him what he had done during that year and a half in which he pretended he was dead and John was erasing him from his mind wasn't easy. He hesitated before schooling his expressions in as much nonchalance as possible and replying, "oh, just, some undercover missions here and there. Helped find a murderer within a monastery, solved a murder in India, plotted against a Prime Minister in Germany", he looked down, unable to meet John's eyes, "...another mission in Serbia."   
  
John... John simply smiled. And Sherlock was relieved, but at the same time he wasn't, he realised he was angry, he had been expecting more, he had been expecting John to- what had he expected John to do? He didn't even know, he simply wasn't expecting this reaction. For gods sake, he was telling John what he had done when John thought he was dead, how could John simply reply with a smile?   
  
He took a deep breath and realised that his hand was trembling. He placed it under the table, so John wouldn't be able to see it.   
  
John cleared his throat and looked down too, hesitant to ask the next question. "So...what about the drugs?"   
  
Sherlock looked up and eyed John quizzically.   
  
"Well, you told me that when we first met you had OD'd. What happened with that?"   
  
Sherlock's skin  _itched_ at the simple mention of drugs. God, it sounded so tempting, right now more than ever, with John unaware of all the things he'd said, of all the history between them, drugs seemed like the perfect way to escape from this.   
  
But no, they weren't, they weren't because as soon as he would go back down from the high, the problem would still be there, John wouldn't remember, Sherlock would be angry and try to run away from him only to find himself closer to him and the closer they got the more painful it was and there was no way  to escape from this, not really.   
  
Although the drugs might help a little, just for a moment.   
  
"Quitted. They weren't working for me."   
  
John nodded, looking rather pleased, "good. Good, I'm glad. That's the best choice you could have done."   
  
_No it isn't. The best choice I could have done was running away from you. But I didn't._ "Yes."   
  
"If you", John cleared his throat, "if you ever feel close to, you know, falling off the wagon again, please talk to me, I'll do my best to help you. Promise?"   
  
Sherlock nodded. "I promise."   
  
John smiled. "Good."   
  
Sherlock had had enough of this conversation that now had turned the tables a bit, he felt in an interrogatory and he really didn't want to be angry with John anymore, and he knew that if he didn't stop talking about it, he would end up being furious. He stood up and helped John up, sitting him in his chair and turning on the tv.   
  
"James Bond!", John exclaimed as soon as he turned to look at the tv.   
  
Sherlock was suddenly struck with the memory. John's blog the comment about the Bond's marathon them sitting for hours watching film after film after film of James Bond while Sherlock pretended he didn't like it and started deducing what was going to happen at the end of each movie with a bored face while John simply smiled and nodded.   
  
_No._   
  
He stood still and looked at John's face. John was smiling widely. He turned to look at the tv. It was Goldfinger. It was John's favourite, he remembered that much, perhaps because of the naked woman covered in gold but who knows.   
  
"Never watched it", he lied.   
  
John stared at him for a moment before asking, "what?"   
  
Sherlock shrugged. "Never have watched a Bond movie before."   
  
"Never? Ever?"   
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes, "no, never, ever."   
  
John nodded, with an expression akin to amusement. "Okay, we need to fix that."   
  
Sherlock looked at him with a raised eyebrow while John stood up, held the crutches and limping, moved the tv a little to the left and a little closer between the two chairs. "Help me, would you?", he asked Sherlock with a bit of effort.   
  
Sherlock went to help him and the two of them moved the tv. Then John walked towards the couch and sat there. Sherlock stood in the middle of the living room, with a questioning look. John patted the couch.   
  
"What?", Sherlock asked.   
  
"We're going to watch the movie, it just started."   
  
"I don't want to", Sherlock lied.   
  
"Well you're going to because you have nothing better to do and I can't believe that you've never watched a Bond movie before. Think of it as an investment in your knowledge of Britain's pop culture"   
  
"I don't want to learn about Britain's pop culture."   
  
"Oh would you just sit?", John said, annoyed.   
  
Sherlock laughed a bit and finally sat right next to him on the couch. Unfortunately, John had sit almost in the middle of the couch, which made it almost impossible for Sherlock to sit next to him and avoid contact at the same time. So he sat and tried to ignore the fact that their forearms were touching and so were their upper legs. Of course not, he was definitely not thinking about the warmth spreading through Sherlock's skin, at the soft feeling of contact, at the easiness in which he could get used to this. It was so easy, John made everything easier. John made everything harder.   
  
He barely paid any attention to the rest of the movie, unable to deviate his attention from John's warmth, and more often than not, he found himself staring at him without even realising it, staring at his face intently and unable to stop himself from mirroring the smile that was drawing in John's face.   
  
When the movie was almost finishing, Sherlock realised by looking at John's face that his eyes were drifting closed, so he would wait until the movie ended and let him rest. He did pay attention to the final minutes of the movie, when he felt a thump on his upper forearm and found John's head leaned on his shoulder, his breathing patterns slow and regular. He had fallen asleep.   
  
Sherlock didn't know what to do. He certainly wasn't going to wake John up and there was the fact he actually didn't want to. He placed his chin on the top of John's head and watched a bit more of telly, and before he could tell or even realise, his own eyes were drifting closed, feeling far too warm and comfortable in John's company.


	20. Chapter 20

Sherlock woke up to the scent of John's hair, trailed in his nose. A scent far too deep, far too important, far too penetrating that seemed to spread all over his body. While he was in that stage of not being quite awake yet but not being asleep, he thought that this was perhaps the most peaceful he had felt in a very long time. It was unusual, how fast he and John could settle back into this domesticity.   
  
Well, more than domesticity, to be honest.   
  
He allowed himself a few more seconds of feeling John's breathing moving at the same time as his, of the sensation and warmth of John's body right next to him, and of the comfort it brought him to be like this. It wasn't terrifying, surprisingly enough, he didn't feel the need to distance himself, to walk away before it was too late. It was unsettling, but he felt, perhaps for the first time in his life, an intense level of trust. He trusted John more than anything else in the whole world, and that feeling was what was making him feel so comfortable, although his back was threatening to murder him if he didn't get in a better position as fast as possible.   
  
So hesitantly, he breathed in John's head and untangled himself from his hold, already missing the warmth and the sensation.   
  
John stirred a bit but went back to sleep. Sherlock dragged a deep breath.   
  
In the bottom of all of this, he had to admit he wanted this desperately. He wanted to go back to a few seconds ago, and hold John in his arms without worrying constantly about committing a miscalculation, or without having that feeling that it was wrong.   
  
Because this wasn't wrong. It could never possibly be wrong.   
  
It was right. It had been right from the very beginning. And he didn't mean that fake beginning at the coffee shop a couple of months ago, no, he meant at the very exact moment when John Watson walked into Barts saying that it was a bit different from his days.   
  
It had always been right.   
  
He had been the one who got it wrong.   
  
He always got it wrong.   
  
He rubbed his forehead, why had he been so stupid? Why had he denied himself the possibility of this? How could he possibly refuse to the idea of holding John like that for the rest of his life?   
  
He was invaded by the sudden need of doing it so again, he wanted to breathe the scent of John's hair, he wanted to feel his warmth, his body, he wanted to get to know every single part of John's body.   
  
He was tired of fighting against it. Why fighting against something that felt so deeply, intensely, incredibly  _right?_   
  
His phone chimed. A text from Lestrade.   
  
Another murder.   
  
*******   
  
Sherlock examined the body closely. He had hesitated about coming here, but curiosity got the best out of him and John didn't need much convincing, they knew they were running out of time in this stupid case, and that could only mean that there would be new victims, so they had to solve this, and they had to do it fast.   
  
But John couldn't come, so Sherlock left him as comfortable as possible and ran towards the crime scene. An apartment building. Sherlock realised that all of the crimes had happened in a very intimate place: their rooms, their flats, even the teacher's crime had been in the common room. It was as if the victims were waiting for their murderer: never the sign of a break-in, never a sign of struggle, nothing. The MO was the same: forcefully stabbed, dead of blood loss.   
  
"Helen Hunt. 27 years old, factory worker. She was on a short holiday and was supposed to return to work on Monday. No sons, no marriage and a distant family that lives in Surrey"   
Sherlock nodded, bending. There was only one real feature of interest in this case and that was-   
  
"Before you ask, yes. There's the same scar."   
  
Sherlock observed her closely. She looked like a perfectly normal girl: she didn't have huge incomes but she liked dressing properly. The flat was small and it wasn't situated in the best part of London but it was her own flat and she certainly made enough money to earn herself a living. Yet loneliness seemed to be her biggest problem, for she was found dead five days later and it was because of her absence to work. So no deep bonds. A middle class young girl with a seemingly hard but good life and not many acquaintances. That was all there was to say about her. Sherlock really had to find the unifying factor. He had been checking other types of scars in the Internet, but couldn't find anything similar in them.   
  
Sherlock stood up. "I need her travel's records, give me more details about her life, her personal schedule, the places she went to, the people she met. I want every single detail about her. It will hopefully lead us to the kidnappers."   
  
"Still no clue?", Lestrade asked, sounding a bit disappointed.   
  
Sherlock glared at him. "They could all be part of a smuggling organisation or something of the sorts, the scar being their way of identification. Perhaps something went wrong with one of the objects and they are taking revenge on anyone associated with it. It's too nebulous. That's why I need the details, Lestrade. Hurry, and send them to me as soon as you have them."   
Lestrade sighed and rubbed his eyes before nodding. He was clearly frustrated at Sherlock for not being able to work it out yet, but this wasn't unusual: Sherlock was an specialist in understanding a crime scene, but that didn't mean he was an specialist in finding the answer fast. Sometimes he took his time, and that was understandable, as long as it meant the case was properly solved.   
  
Sherlock looked at the soles of her shoes and saw something interesting in the back of her shirt: there was a long line across the back of the shirt that looked as if it had been burned with a cable. Sherlock frowned, it looked like an old mark, as if it had been done way before the murder. He took a picture of it and frowned as he examined it. He had to think about what it could possibly meant.   
  
*******   
  
The fire was lit when he returned to Baker Street. It was a cold afternoon and he'd spent most of the time trying to find the victim's travel schedule or their previous activities before their murder, but they found nothing that could possibly link them together. Sherlock felt tired and frustrated and angry. It was as if the whole world was conspiring against him solving this case, and he still had absolutely no idea of what else to do.   
  
John was sitting on the couch watching tv and he turned to look at Sherlock with a frown as soon as he stepped into the flat. "You okay?", he asked.   
  
Sherlock leaned against the doorframe and nodded. "The case-", he closed his eyes, he didn't like admitting this, rarely brought himself to do it so. "Still no clues." He sighed and took off his coat and his scarf before entering and walking towards the kitchen slowly. "I'll make you some tea."   
  
He felt a hand grabbing his wrist and found John looking at him as he stood up, "I'll do it."   
  
"You should rest."   
  
"I'm bloody  _exhausted_ of resting!", he said bitterly, and it probably sounded sharper than he intended to.   
  
Sherlock nodded and slumped himself on the couch.   
  
John grabbed his crutches and went to make the tea. Sherlock had a lot of things in his mind: the odd familiarity of the murderer with the victims, as if they had known him all along, the unexplainable rage behind the wounds, as if looking for a personal revenge over and over,  _the damn scar._   
  
He didn't hear the kettle, but he did hear John as he said, "help me bringing them to the table, please."   
  
Sherlock stood up and grabbed the cuppas from John's hand and he looked at him. John looked... Odd?, hesitant?, unsure about something?, doubtful?, unsettled?, nervous? All of the above?   
  
He turned to take the cups to the coffee table when John's voice stopped him, "wait."   
  
Sherlock stood there, turning to look at John enquiringly. John limped towards him and stopped right in front of him, in the middle between the kitchen and the living room.   
  
John cleared his throat and looked down before talking. "When-", his voice quivered so he tried it once again, "when I was shot, there was something you said while you were trying to control the bleeding."   
  
Sherlock's heart  _leapt_ to his throat. "Was there?"   
  
John nodded, still looking down. It took a while before he spoke once again, "you looked terrified and filled with rage, I had never seen you like that before, the way your hands trembled as you applied the pressure... And then you said- you said", he looked up and his eyes met Sherlock's. His voice was soft. "You said you couldn't lose me."   
  
Sherlock's heart was positively finding a way to jump out of his throat at this point. He swallowed. "Did I?", was all he managed to ask.   
  
John nodded.   
  
"Are you certain that it wasn't an hallucination? They are quite common whenever there's blood loss and-"   
  
"100% certain", John interrupted him.   
  
Sherlock cleared his throat. "Right."   
  
"So, what does it mean?", John asked, licking his lip.   
  
There was no way out of this. John hadn't been supposed to hear that. He was almost unconscious at that point, in fact that had been what had made Sherlock lose control. How could he possibly remember that? He couldn't run away from this. "It means that I can't lose you", he said lowly.   
  
John moved an inch closer, just an inch. "But, but what does  _that_ mean?", he asked helplessly.   
  
Sherlock dragged a deep breath. "It means that you are... Valuable to me."   
  
"Valuable?", John looked disappointed as he repeated Sherlock's choice of word. Sherlock realised with a pang that perhaps John didn't have the same idea of what valuable meant. For Sherlock, at that exact moment, it meant that he was  _everything._ That. That was what he was trying to tell John Watson. That was how much John Watson meant to him, that was what he was far too coward to admit.   
  
He couldn't stop himself. The cowardice left,  leading the way to a new kind of feeling to appear: a sudden, consuming need to let John know. Far too deep, far too intense. He couldn't shut it up anymore. "John, it means that- it means that I simply can't lose you, because I can't even begin to imagine a world where you're not there, with your... sweaters and your trembling hand. I can't imagine a world without your compliments after a deduction, a world without your constant need to care for people, to care for  _me,_ to _save_ me _._   
  
And you have. In such little time you have. You did once, after the- the overdose, you did. But now, I have the nagging sensation you keep doing it, you keep me right."   
  
The room was too silent, the only sound coming from their breathing. Sherlock felt terrified. He had said it. He had actually said it. The words were hanging in the air, in the middle between them, their meaning heavy and threatening to fall over both of them. John cleared his throat and Sherlock braced himself for what was about to come.   
  
"No."   
  
Sherlock frowned. He had been expecting a little bit more than just a no. He knew, he knew this wasn't happening, he knew that he wasn't the person John Watson deserved, he had caused too much pain, he kept causing it, without wanting to, because there was nothing more painful than seeing John in pain and-   
  
"You're wrong.  _You_ saved  _me."_   
  
Sherlock looked up, unable to stop the surprise from drawing in his face. "You- you, meeting you, was-", his fists clenched and unclenched. He dragged a deep breath, looking frustrated. "Damn it!", he tried again, "meeting you was the best thing that could have possibly happened to me. You, you are- this is- that", he closed his eyes. "I find it difficult, this sort of stuff", he finally admitted, sounding defeated.   
  
Sherlock took a step closer. "I know."   
  
"Of course you bloody do."   
  
Sherlock smiled at him and John seemed to relax himself enough to carry on. "Thank you. For saving me."   
  
Sherlock frowned, what John had just said didn't make sense at all. He hadn't saved him, he had taken him to the dragon's pit and left him there, which resulted on his current not psychosomatic limp. He didn't do that, he didn't save people.   
  
"I don't mean with this", John rolled his eyes, pointing to his leg with one of the crutches,as if he'd read Sherlock's mind. He cleared his throat. "I mean, ever since I met you. You changed it all."   
  
He didn't realise he had taken a step forward.   
  
John did.   
  
John and him were only inches apart, and God he  _wanted_ this.   
  
John's eyes widened as Sherlock looked into them, blue, so blue,  stained by his pupils dilated. The silence was so intense and their breathing was so heavy that it felt as if with every inhalation and exhalation a drum was pounding. Over and over and over.   
  
Sherlock could listen to his heartbeat. It hadn't returned to his usual place after jumping right to his throat, it was there.   
  
_Boom boom._ Sherlock took another step. He could feel John's breathing.  _Boom boom._   
  
Instinctively, John looked at Sherlock's lips and then up to meet his eyes. Holding their stare, he licked his lips and Sherlock couldn't help but look at them.   
  
He leaned closer and their foreheads touched. John's eyes closed.   
  
And then Sherlock stopped there.   
  
John's eyes opened after a while.   
  
Sherlock didn't move apart but shook his head. "I don't know, John", he whispered.   
  
"You don't know what?", John said, swallowing.   
  
"I don't want to lose you", he repeated.   
  
"You won't", John said with certainty. "You won't."   
  
"I, I-"   
  
John cupped his cheeks with his hands, rubbing his thumbs over his cheekbones, "I want this, Sherlock."   
  
Sherlock's brain had apparently shut itself off.   
  
"Sherlock", John said closing his eyes once again, looking terrified, as if he was considering the idea that Sherlock might not want him, might not want this, and how could he possibly ever think that? How could Sherlock possibly not want  _him?_   
  
Sherlock closed his eyes and closed the last millimetres of distance between them. And their lips met.   
  
It started hesitantly, a soft, chest touch of the lips, John's gasp as soon as their lips touched, and John's hands moving from his cheekbones to place them in the back of Sherlock's hand, bringing them even closer, and as soon as they did, their mouths opened.   
  
And everything changed.   
  
It had been too long. Far too long. Seconds minutes hours days weeks months, Jesus,  _years._ Years wanting this, wishing nothing but this, thinking about nothing but this.   
  
John's lips parting his mouth opening every single place of their body in touch with the other covered by layers and layers and layers of fabric but their bodies touching nonetheless their breathing ragged the endless  _need_ for each other. He could feel it, all of it at the same time. Impossible.   
  
John broke the kiss first, to recover his breath, their foreheads still joined together. "I- I-", words failed him.   
  
Sherlock smiled and placed a quick kiss on his lips once again. Then he kissed his cheeks, the tip of his nose, the corners of his mouth, his jaw...he had been given the chance, he was not wasting it, even if this was the first and only. Which it probably was. Which it almost certainly was.   
  
He kept kissing John as they stumbled backwards until John was against the wall, right next to the door. John gasped and opened his mouth to kiss Sherlock once again. They stood there for god knows how long, perhaps too long, perhaps not. All they knew is that once they broke off it would be too soon.   
  
John did so first. "My, my leg ah- hurts", John said with a flinch and Sherlock moved away immediately.   
  
Sherlock looked down, "I'm sorry."   
  
John smiled, "no, no. Just, let's go to the couch, okay?"   
  
Sherlock wasn't going to say no, he helped John to the couch, and as soon as he laid there, he couldn't help but join him, as if their bodies were involuntarily attracting each other, like some sort of electromagnetic energy acting over them.   
  
John lifted his head to reach Sherlock's lips and they kissed once again, deeply and intensely. A moan escaped John's throat and Sherlock gasped. This,  _this._   
  
_The cell -for it was a cell- was small, an underground bunker hidden amongst the hills. It was dark. His head pounded, his back hurt, he couldn't feel his arms anymore and he couldn't remember the last time he had sit. Sweat trickled over his face, or maybe blood, he didn't know, he was having trouble breathing, he was having trouble shivering. Shivering wasted too much energy and he didn't have energy anymore. He knew what this meant. It could only mean one thing: giving up. He felt it, spreading all over his body, each section slowly fading away, like a candle that's slowly losing its light, his body was giving up on him. He wouldn't make it out of here alive. He knew that. At first he wouldn't dare himself to believe it, but as time passed it seemed more and more possible. Now it wasn't an option anymore, it simply was fate. It was a matter of time, he was just waiting for it to happen._   
  
_Once, when he was a little boy, he had read that brain activity takes up from 20 to 25 percent of the body's energy._   
  
_There was nothing else to do but use it, and wait for his brain to absorb all the energy from his body and set him free._   
  
_So he allowed himself to think._   
  
_And John Watson was the first thing that popped into his mind._   
  
_He couldn't tell what it was he remembered, it was as if, with allowing himself to do it so, an explosion had occurred inside his brain: now John was taking all of it. John's height, John's weight, John's shaking hand, John's rage sniff, John's middle name, John's smile, John's smell, John's voice. It was everywhere._   
  
_Perhaps not such a terrible way to die after all._   
  
_Perhaps not the way he had planned things to end._   
  
_No. He never intended it to end like this. He intended to get out of here alive, to see John's face again, real, beautiful, broken, John Watson's face. He intended to sit with John and tell him over and over about all the things he did while he was away, he intended to chase criminals over the streets of London once again, with John Watson running firmly by his side._   
  
_He wasn't supposed to die._   
  
_He closed his eyes and saw John standing in front of him. His last memory of him provided the image, and so John stood in a militarily rigid position, his hand clenching and unclenching and his black jacket. He stood in front of something, covering his eyes with his hands, as if they were able to heal broken sobs. He was standing in front of his grave._   
  
_Sherlock stood frozen, still. The rest of the image was dark, completely dark, only John standing in the middle of the darkness. Sherlock looked at him, desperate to reach him, to touch him, to reassure him. "I'm sorry", was all he whispered and mind palace John looked up to see him, an enquiring look in his eyes. "I'm sorry", he said swallowing._   
  
_"Why?" John asked, and he wasn't crying anymore._   
  
_"Because- I've failed you. I promised I'd be back, even if you don't know it, I did."_   
  
_"You haven't broken it."_   
  
_"But I'm about to."_   
  
_"Why?"_   
  
_"Because this is my last source of energy. This. This is it."_   
  
_He didn't hear the door opening. He didn't hear the two men coming in, but he certainly felt the first blow to his stomach. He winced with pain. John simply stared at him._   
  
_"I'm sorry John, I won't make it."_   
  
_"Yes you will."_   
  
_"No, no I won't."_   
  
Do you remember sleep?, _the ugly, rough, serbian voice said and Sherlock flinched, he knew what was coming._   
  
_"You can't break your promise. You can't break your promise to me. You'll do it. You'll get out of here. You'll see me again, because that's what you said you'd do. And somewhere in London I'm waiting, I'm desperately waiting. So move your arse and get out of here. Because you're not dying Sherlock, I won't allow you to. Not without me."_   
  
_He closed his eyes. "John", was all he managed to say, and he felt it, he felt the last strain of his body giving its fullest._   
  
_"I'll be waiting, Sherlock."_   
  
"Sherlock", John mouthed between kisses. Sherlock felt, to put it in a word:  _immortal._   
  
John had that effect on him, even if not with the same intensity as now. Sherlock felt defeated but undefeated, lost but somehow found, losing yet winning. And Jesus, he was already hard.   
  
John tightened his grip on Sherlock's hair, urging him closer, urging them closer. Sherlock leaned on his elbows and kissed John frantically, a messy and desperate touch of their lips as they lost their composure. Sherlock complied and leaned closer to John, their bodies touching despite the fabric, joined in a lot of different ways. And God,  _God,_ John was hard. John wanted this, John wanted him.   
  
Slowly, hesitantly, he reached a hand down and softly touched him. John moaned.   
  
He looked up and their eyes met. John's lips were flushed, his cheeks were flushed, even his nose was flushed. It was beautiful. John smiled at him and slowly, slowly, nodded.   
  
_Yes._   
  
_He was waiting._


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very sorry for taking so long to update, but I've been so terribly busy, more than I've ever expected, and taking time off duties and boring real life sometimes it's impossible. Thankfully I managed to take just a bit of time off and here it is, enjoy. Or not. Or yes?

Time is relative. Time can pass incredibly fast or incredibly slow. Sherlock had come to realise eventually that his time with John, that year and a half before the fall, had passed by incredibly _fast_. And time away from him had been incredibly _slow_.

Now, with John in his arms, with the possibility of _more_ , with the seductive, passionate, endless possibility of more, he wanted nothing but time to pass by _slow slow slow_.

"Sherlock...", John whispered, and it was like a plea.

Sherlock felt drugged by it. Listening to John's voice, calling his name with such urgency and desperation was everything Sherlock could have ever imagined.

Perhaps he didn't imagine it'd be like this.

But this was perfect.

He deepened their kiss, as if they had the need to share their breath, as if they had a desperate desire for each other, which they did. Right now Sherlock could feel it. He could feel it all over him, but better than that, he could almost feel John's desire, he knew it was just as genuine as his. The idea made him lose his breath. Even more.

His hands were shaking and slowly, oh so terribly slowly, for time is relative, Sherlock unbuttoned John's trousers and unzipped them. John moaned.

Sherlock smiled. He needed more. They needed more.

He palmed John's hard cock over his pants and they couldn't stop kissing, wouldn't stop kissing. There was no turning away from this and right at the moment, Sherlock couldn't care less.

"Sherlock...please...", John said, panting.

Sherlock kept palming him, marvelling at the idea of what was happening between them. Then he tucked his hand into John's pants and John couldn't help but moan.

They couldn't get rid of their clothes, that would take too much time. John needed this. Sherlock needed this.

Sherlock wrapped his hand over his cock and stroked, and he felt a wave of sensations falling over him. _It was John's panting John's voice my name as a whisper as a beg it was the heat it was the lips it was the need it was everything._

"Jesus, Sherlock...yes", John said out of breath and Sherlock kept stroking, establishing a rhythm between them, he could tell John liked it.

John's hand roamed down, touching touching touching and stopped in front of Sherlock's trousers.

And Sherlock felt all the air leave his lungs.

John broke their kiss and stared at Sherlock. His cheeks were flushed and his hair was tousled and the image was so perfect and so sexy that Sherlock's cock responded immediately.

John bit his lower lip and smiled at him tentatively.

Sherlock just stared at him and stared and stared.

_Yes. Please. John, please. I need you more than ever. I need you. I've needed you ever since I last said goodbye, I couldn't stop thinking about this and how it'd never happen so please. Even if just for today. Let me have this._

John's smile widened and their lips met again. He started unbuttoning Sherlock's trousers and Sherlock was panting, but he didn't stop stroking John, couldn't stop stroking John.

Unzipped.

It was so real. All of it. So real.

"Ah. John please. I-need you. Please."

"Yes", was John's reply. A simple, shaky, out-of-breath yes. And Sherlock nearly lost it. He moaned.

John played slowly with the band of Sherlock's pants. He skimmed his fingers over it, feeling the soft skin of Sherlock's hips.

He tugged them down, just a bit. Enough to be able to grab Sherlock's cock.

It was happening. It was really happening.

Slowly, slowly, slowly, John stroked Sherlock's cock.

Sherlock couldn't breathe.

But he kept stroking John, increasing his rhythm, smiling as he saw John's helpless, desperate response to every single one of his movements. And John stroked Sherlock and it was so fast so fast so fast.

John's body was trembling, their kisses were more and more erratic, both of them were so near to the edge.

"Sh- Sherlock...Sherlock", John breathed.

And then he came.

And his lips his face his eyes his panting breath his mouth still whispering Sherlock his small smile his strokes his fingers his soft fingers caressing his cock.

Sherlock moaned something, perhaps John's name. It was all he could say. It was the only word that said it all.

And he came as well.

And he blacked out for a second. Or maybe not, he couldn't tell. His mind was blank.

All he could feel was John's lips chasing after him and his hands caressing Sherlock's forearms and he realised he was trembling and he felt so overcome with feelings he thought he was going to cry.

He pressed his forehead against John's chest, feeling his rise and fall. His rise and fall. His rise. His fall.

He wanted to say it. He so desperately wanted to say it. He had felt it for over two years.

But John thought it were only months.

So no, he couldn't say it yet. He simply tried to recover his breath.

John softly nestled his hair on his fingers. Sherlock looked up. The sensations were giving way to a desperate fear. Not yet. He didn't want this to end yet.

John smiled at him. "Okay?", he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Sherlock couldn't help but smile back and nod.

"Sherlock...that was... That was..."

"Please, don't."

"That was perfect."

Sherlock stared at him, stunned. Without even thinking he leaned up and their lips met once again, softly, less desperate.

"You have no idea for how long I wanted this."

_You have no idea for how long I wanted this_ , Sherlock thought. It had been far too long.

"Ever since I met you, Sherlock. I couldn't stop thinking about you."

_That wasn't the first time we met._

"And I never thought you would want this too and God... You want this too."

_That wasn't the first time we met._

"And it was perfect."

_That wasn't the first time we met._

Sherlock stood up in a rush. He went to the bathroom and closed himself. His mind was running, telling him how wrong this was and how all of this was his fault because John didn't know, he didn't know all the things they went through, but Sherlock did, Sherlock did and did nothing to stop him, even though he knew that there was no way out of this, that John could only get hurt again and if he ever chose to erase his mind again-

Sherlock couldn't breathe, but for completely different reasons.

"Sherlock?", John asked from the living room. "Is everything okay?"

_I'm sorry John. I'm sorry._

"...yes", he shakily replied. He cleared his throat. "Yes."

He couldn't do this.

There was a knock on the bathroom door and Sherlock felt startled. "Sherlock?"

And Sherlock was exhausted. Exhausted of fighting against it. Damn it, he was given a taste of John's lips, of John's kisses. He wasn't backing down. He had already crossed that line. He knew that closing himself from feelings was only going to hurt John more. No. He had already messed up. The least he could do was to give John some explanation.

Shakily, he opened the door.

And the image of John greeted him. John with a tiny yet confused smile, John, whose eyes shined bright and who apparently couldn't stop himself from looking at Sherlock like that. He smiled back and his heart stopped rushing.

"Are you okay?", John asked.

Sherlock closed his eyes. John thought Sherlock was second guessing this. No. He had to reassure him. He cupped John's face with his hands and kissed him.

John softly caressed Sherlock's forearms and the warmth seeping through those perfect hands was enough to calm him down completely.

"Maybe...", Sherlock said between kisses, "...we should get some sleep."

John smiled into the kiss, "...maybe we should", he replied, his lips not quite leaving Sherlock's.

Sherlock pulled apart just slightly, enough to look at John in the eyes. "I mean it."

John threw his head back and sighed. "Alright then". He looked hesitantly around the flat. The question was in his lips and honestly, Sherlock was wondering the same.

They stood in an awkward silence for a second, but Sherlock finally gathered courage. "Em... You can, you can stay in my bedroom... If you'd like".

John turned to look at him in surprise and smiled. "I'd like that, yes."

Sherlock smiled back, grabbed John's hand and led them towards his bedroom. As soon as he opened the door, John started kissing him again and Sherlock gasped. They stood there for a while, content with feeling each other there. John grimaced and had to break away because his leg was throbbing him once again. He looked disappointed of having to limp towards Sherlock's bed.

He didn't undress. Sherlock didn't either.

They were both worn out, exhausted and at the same time extremely pleased. John tucked himself under the covers until he found a comfortable position. Sherlock felt uncertain of what to do now, he sat on the edge of the bed and turned to look at John, who was looking at him with a soft smile on his face.

Sherlock leaned against the headboard and stood over the covers, looking at John intently, who wouldn't take his eyes off him. Finally John broke the spell and moved the covers a bit, as he moved aside as well. "Come here", was all he said.

Sherlock snuggled in and tucked himself under the covers, going through a thousand thoughts in his mind, that were hauling him over and over and over. That until John shifted and placed a hand over Sherlock's stomach, holding him, almost _cuddling_ him. He raised his eyebrows and turned to look at him in surprise, but John's eyes were already closed. He released a breath he didn't know he had been holding and turned the lights off.

He couldn't remember when had been the last time he had slept that peacefully.

Well, that was until the nightmares started.

*******

Sherlock was kissing John. The memory so vivid that he could almost feel their joined lips. Perfect. Warm. Comfortable. Sherlock couldn't still quite believe he was kissing John.

But then it all went backwards. Literally backwards. The image was vivid too. John getting shot and blood in Sherlock's hands. John in the rooftop of St. Barts looking at the stars. John's headaches. John asking him about the newspaper. John looking at him and being unable to recognise him. Ignoring him. Then his hand shaking. Then his coffee on the floor. Then something about John had changed. Then he was wearing a cast on his leg and holding a cane and wearing the same clothes he had worn the night before while he kissed Sherlock and moaned his name. But the same confused, unaware expression was there. He couldn't recognise Sherlock. After the kiss, after the... After all that, after sleeping together he looked at him like the first time they met after that year and a half Sherlock had been away. Like he hadn't ever seen him, as if he had no idea-

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock sat up in a rush. Everything was turning. His breathing was ragged. John was holding his arm.

_John. Holding his arm. John, who remembered him._

John, staring at him, looking worried. Sherlock turning to look at him and seeing the creases in John forehead easing down.

John, with his thumb over Sherlock's cheek, caressing the skin there. "It's okay, it was just a nightmare."

"John", Sherlock said and he sounded almost choked, because John was aware, because John was here, John recognised him.

John smiled at him. "Everything is okay. I'm here, love."

_Love._

Sherlock couldn't do anything but hold onto John's shirt and pull him towards him. He wasn't quite sure about what was a dream and what was a reality. John allowed himself to be pulled. Sherlock placed his face on the crook of John's neck, breathing him in as he felt himself calming down.

"It's okay", John said, rubbing his cheek over Sherlock's hair.

He never asked about his nightmares. Just as Sherlock never asked him about his.

They were both broken. Yet somehow they had managed to heal themselves.

Eventually his fists unclenched their hold on John's shirt and he fell asleep, listening to John's reassuring voice, feeling the soft skin of his neck under his lips.

*******

The sun was starting to come out when Sherlock opened his eyes once again. He hadn't had any nightmares after he fell asleep on John's arms. He widened his eyes. _John's arms_.

Somehow throughout the night they had shifted and now Sherlock was the one holding John, his hand over John's stomach, John's hand covering his, as he breathed slowly, deeply asleep. They were in a position that could only be described as _spooning_ and the situation surely should have bothered Sherlock more than it really did. He couldn't care less about all of this... Fluffiness. He was holding John in his arms. Finally.

He allowed himself to move closer, to press himself as close to John's back as he possibly could, to feel their bodies together, John's back merging with his chest, their breathing synchronised, moving at the same time, as if they were just one. Apart by a lot of layers of clothes, but feeling the closest they've ever been. Sherlock closed his eyes and smiled in relief. He could get used to this. He could wake up to this every single morning, feel the rise and fall of John's chest below his hands for the rest of his life. Hell, this was everything he never thought he wanted.

He opened his eyes once again to look at John's back, at his even breathing, at his hair, looking slightly messy, clearly as an evidence of what had happened the night before, the memories rushed back to him, John moaning Sherlock's name as he came, then kissing him, sharing a bed, waking up next to him. He roamed his eyes through his perfect, perfectly kissable neck, his- _wait_.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and forced himself to blink. He opened them and looked and looked and looked, unable to tear the look away from John's neck. Perhaps he was dreaming after all. God, he wished he did. No. He wasn't. He looked. He couldn't stop looking, and saw that horrible, barely visible, hidden-by-the-short-hair scar that Sherlock had seen three times before. In the three victims of murder.

He stood up in a rush, not caring if he woke John up, and rushed to the living room, looking for the phone that was still on the pocket of his jacket, the jacket he had carelessly thrown to the ground when John had divested him of it. He picked up the phone with trembling hands and dialled the only number he could think of at the moment.

_Pick up pick up PICK UP_

"Lestrade", a sleepy voice replied on the other end of the call.

"It's Lacuna!", he almost yelled to the phone. "The unifying factor. It's Lacuna!"


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I know this took long, but I hope you enjoy this MONSTROUS chapter! (over 6k words!) thank you so much for your lovely comments, they are very very much appreciated <3

"What's Lacuna?", Lestrade asked, more awake than before but barely stifling a yawn.

"Technology we've never seen before, attached to the people's necks, leaving marks people don't know they have, and don't remember ever acquiring-"

"Sherlock!"

"-and he has it too. He has it too. This can't- no."

"Sherlock?", Lestrade tried once again, his voice shifting from annoyed to worried. "Who, who has it?"

"Three months old apparently by the way the skin has recovered around the wounded area, probably the cause of the repetitive headaches, the doctors should have known, why didn't they say anything? Why didn't they ask about the scar?"

"Sherlock!", Lestrade said rubbing his eyes, "can you please explain to me what is going on? What's Lacuna?"

Sherlock dragged a breath so deep that Lestrade could perfectly hear it through the phone. When his voice came back he sounded defeated, lost. "It's the- the clinic to erase the mind."

Lestrade's mouth opened in surprise. Suddenly it all made sense. "And-", he didn't want to ask, but he had to, "and John-"

"Has it too", Sherlock said and his voice sounded weird, in a point between worried and deeply, terribly sad.

"Sherlock-"

Sherlock cleared his throat and stood up from the chair he didn't realise he had sit on. "I'll see you at The Yard in twenty minutes", was all he said and he hung up.

John was still sleeping in his room, in his bed, hoping to wake up and find Sherlock smiling at him. Well he wouldn't get that, because Sherlock couldn't give him that, less in these circumstances.

Sherlock sneaked into the room trying hard not to wake him up, grabbed his clothes and took a quick shower. He dressed up in a hurry, forcing himself not to think, not to think, not to think. He couldn't avoid it, but he could pretend he wasn't thinking about the scar, he wasn't thinking about John being a potential target. He wasn't thinking about how he had to keep John in the dark about it. He wasn't thinking about the risks of investigating this, about how John Watson was in danger.

Of course he wasn't thinking about it.

He got out of the bathroom, grabbed his coat and wrapped his scarf around himself when he heard a sleepy, "Sherlock?"

Damn it.

Sherlock walked towards his room and found John smiling at him through half-lidded eyes. "Hey", John said with a smile.

Not thinking about the scar.

Sherlock crouched and placed a kiss on John's forehead.

Not thinking about the scar.

"Go back to sleep", Sherlock said, running his hands through John's hair.

Not thinking about the scar.

"Where are you going to?", smart, perceptive John asked.

"Scotland Yard. New case", he half-lied.

"I'll go with you", John said, aiming to sit up, but Sherlock softly pushed him back down by the shoulder.

"No. You need to rest and take care of your leg", Sherlock said and for a second was thankful of John's injury, it was a great excuse to use, a way to tell himself that he wasn't lying to John nor hiding things from him, not directly.

John's mouth pulled in a snarl but finally he nodded. "Fine."

Sherlock smiled. "Won't take long."

"Please don't. And take care. Please."

Sherlock leaned in and kissed John, in the lips, because now he got to. Their kiss rapidly turned from a lazy snog to a heated one, and Sherlock didn't want to back away, didn't want to break away, he wanted to keep kissing those lips forever.

But he had to break apart.

"Promise", he said.

He left without turning back.

*******

The ride in the car seemed endless. Sherlock's mind couldn't stop turning. Was all of this a coincidence? Or were all those victims linked to each other? Was Lacuna in any way responsible for this? Was John in danger?

_John._

He clenched his fists. He had to solve this, and he had little time. The murders were becoming more and more common. He had to find a way to protect John.

He had to find a way to protect John without John finding out he was being protected, lest of all without John knowing why he was being protected.

Sherlock was scared. But now was not a time to let fear overcome him. Now was the time to use John as a motivator to solve the case, to use him as a conductor of light.

He tried to push his feelings aside, tried to ignore the constant, nagging sensation of needing to be with John. No. His feelings didn't matter right now. What mattered was to keep John safe.

Well, having the British Government as a brother had its advantages.

He phoned Mycroft, "hello big brother, how are you?"

********

Sherlock hated admitting it, but he felt relieved. Mycroft promised to keep all his minions aware of Baker Street and its surroundings, even more so than usual. His brother's voice sounded somewhat amused since he picked up the phone, somehow as if he knew everything that had happened between John and Sherlock the night before just from listening to his little brother's voice.

The taxi stopped at NSY and Sherlock couldn't walk fast enough to reach Lestrade's office. He found the DI sitting on his desk, a huge cup of coffee next to him, big bags under his eyes. He looked up as soon as Sherlock appeared and stood up. "Explain."

Sherlock started pacing across the office, his hands below his chin. He didn't say hello, nor bothered to tell his thoughts to Lestrade. Everything fell silent in the room. Lestrade shifted his weight from one foot to the other, clearly filled with impatience.

Finally Sherlock stopped and looked at him. "Let's go", he said, turning and leaving the office.

Lestrade stared at him for a moment, looking dumbfounded. He knew better than to ask where Sherlock wanted to go, so he simply followed him.

The police car stopped in front of a tall building, all painted in white. Lestrade got out of it with a frown, the building didn't have a signal with its name and Lestrade couldn't recall even seeing it before. Hidden in plain sight.

Sherlock walked in as if he owned the place, his hands tucked in the pockets of his Belstaff and looking impressively calm, in contrast to his terrified voice when they had talked to each other a bit more than an hour ago.

He climbed the stairs towards the second floor when a woman greeted him.

"Mr. Holmes!", she said excitedly.

"Hello, Melissa."

Melissa's face brightened up but then her smile faded. "Please tell me you're not thinking about... Not again."

Lestrade rose an eyebrow and turned to look at Sherlock. Sherlock shook his head. "No."

"How is Doctor Watson?"

Sherlock felt a second of fear and uncertainty invading him but it was all fine, he told himself, Mycroft was keeping an eye on him, John was unaware of all of this and he remembered the small, silly smile on his face that morning, "he's fine. Yes. He's good. Listen, Melissa, I'm actually here on a legitimate inquiry. This is Detective Inspector Lestrade and we need to have a word with you."

She looked surprised and perhaps a little scared. Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Is everything okay?", she asked.

"Yes you're fine", he honestly had no reasons to doubt in her and had to admit that he actually kind of liked her. "I just know that it'll be easier for you to cooperate than for the rest of the staff."

She threw him a small smile, "of course. Anything to help you and Doctor Watson solve a crime."

_Anything to help us not to become the victims._

They closed themselves in one of the examination rooms.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as soon as they sat on the desk inside the room. "Melissa, where is Hawthorne?"

"Out. Holiday. He'll be away for a month", she replied at ease, then her eyes turned to focus on Lestrade and she hesitated, "is- is everything okay?"

Lestrade crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair in the most police-like position he could find. Melissa felt uncomfortable immediately, Sherlock could tell by her face. "No. It isn't. Look Mrs-"

"Mcleish", Melissa replied.

"-Mcleish", Lestrade thought about how to bring up the subject without mentioning the serial murders, "...a few enquiries have been directed at Lacuna, not only this clinic is functioning under the law, but it seems like some of the client's privacy has been compromised."

Melissa's eyes narrowed. "You're lying to me. I can't cooperate if you're tricking me to do it so. Do you seriously think that if you were suspecting of the clinic's legality Sherlock Holmes would be here?"

_Oh, she is clever._

Lestrade cleared his throat and looked down, clearly not having expected Melissa's reply. "Fine. I'll speak with the truth, but do cooperate with me."

"Of course I will."

"There's been a series of murders, and we're suspecting-"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, clearly annoyed at Lestrade's way to bring the subject. "What kind of machines do you use to perform the procedures, Melissa?"

Melissa blinked. "-murders?"

Sherlock turned to glare at Lestrade before focusing back again on Melissa. "Look, this is a most serious matter, and we need to solve it as fast as possible, now please show us the machines you use to erase people's minds. Any one in particular that might leave a mark on your clients' necks?"

Melissa's face had completely fallen after listening to the word 'murder' but she seemed to come back to herself once she realized that she was actually given the chance to _help_ Sherlock Holmes. She cleared her throat, "Yes. Yes, but the clients don't know about it. It's an instrument called the Philo-"

"Not important", Sherlock said, clearly impatient, "what kind of mark does it leave?"

She thought for a second before replying, "a sort of funny mark, it's the shape of the-"

Sherlock stood up, ignoring her remark and sighed, "Melissa, I need to ask you a favor, but this is the most personal matter, I require absolute silence from your behalf."

Melissa nodded, and eyed him expectantly, "Of course, Mr. Holmes. Please tell me how I can help you."

"I need you to send me each and every single one of your client's records", Lestrade turned to look at him, unable to school his expression of surprise.

Melissa's head snapped up. "Wh-what? You can't ask me to do that! That's violating the client's privacy!"

"Four of your clients have died!", Sherlock replied, rising his voice tone and startling her, "I think their security is more important than their privacy!"

Melissa gasped, bringing a hand to her mouth in surprise, "...is Dr. Watson-"

Sherlock shook his head and if he looked a bit blanched at Melissa's implication, well that was just the light. He clenched his hand into a fist and found it difficult to speak up when he replied, "...no. But, but", he looked down, "he might be in danger. Please."

Melissa smiled softly at him. "-Fine. But if this costs me my job-"

"Trust me, once we've solved this case, _your_ job won't be the one at stake."

"You're lucky Hawthorne is not here."

"I'm starting to think he has a good reason not to be here", Sherlock said, implying more than what he wanted to.

Melissa didn't comment on that, "it might be a while... before I manage to _steal_ all of the files."

Sherlock sighed with impatience. "Fine, send them to me", he said, tugging his coat collar up, walking to the door and nodding at Lestrade, as if to signal him to follow.

"Baker Street?", she asked.

Sherlock nodded while opening the door. "Yes." He stopped there, John, his eyes narrowed, "NO!", he fixed immediately, turning to look at her. "No, no. Send them to", he turned to look at Lestrade, "New Scotland Yard."

"Office 512", Lestrade said while Melissa nodded.

"Please, hurry", Sherlock said before walking out the door. A couple of seconds later he came back, "thank you", he said before disappearing.

Lestrade turned to look at Melissa, rising his eyebrows. "Well that's a first."

*******

"Where to?", Lestrade asked as Sherlock gave the cabbie an address he hadn't heard before.

"Hawthorne's house", Sherlock replied without looking at Lestrade.

Lestrade frowned, "the doctor?"

"Of course the doctor, even you might be thinking that he is our first suspect. He knew every single one of the patients, they allowed him into his house, he knows details about their lives, about the people they decided to erase-", he fell silent. He couldn't avoid the thought of John popping into his mind.

Lestrade looked down, "haven't you stopped to consider that perhaps he, I don't know, might be in his own house while we're trying to bust in?"

"You heard Melissa, he's on holidays. Mexico."

"Mexico?", Lestrade asked surprised.

"Hm. His office couldn't scream it louder if he wanted to. A 'Spanish for dummies' book laying on his desk, a coupon to 'all the tacos you can eat' he had used two weeks before, probably preparing his stomach, and his very obvious inclination to collect the mementos brought by his patients related to death, since he has at least two small skeleton toys in the office that don't belong to him. He wants to be there by the Dia de los Muertos, which will be in three weeks, so planning a long stay. He asked for a month of holidays, anyway. Left two days ago."

"When did you break into his office?", Lestrade inquired.

Sherlock scoffed, "I didn't break in. All I had to do was look through the window."

Lestrade smiled and shook his head in awe. He couldn't believe Sherlock Holmes sometimes.

Sherlock's phone pinged and he took it out hastily. Message from John. _Bored._

Sherlock smiled and was thinking about what to reply when another message arrived, _Miss you._

Sherlock's smile grew even wider. _I've only been gone for an hour. -SH._

_Far too much time if you ask me._

_Won't take long. Promise. -SH._

_Murder?_

_Yes. -SH._

_Details?_

_Later. -SH._

_We will be far too busy later._

Sherlock laughed and typed a reply, I intend so. -SH.

Sherlock looked up to find Lestrade staring at him with a knowing smirk, "is John alright then?"

Sherlock cleared his throat and put his phone in his pocket, feeling a blush reaching his cheeks. "Apparently yes."

Lestrade turned to look through the window, but Sherlock could tell from his tone that the hideous smirk was still in place, "good. I'm glad."

"So am I."

Sherlock thought he heard Lestrade murmuring 'about bloody time' but he couldn't quite tell.

They remained silent for the rest of the ride.

Breaking into the apartment was far too easy. This man was leaving for three weeks and didn't even bother about properly securing his house? What was up with the criminal classes these days?

He was almost convinced that Hawthorne was the one who'd made the murders, now all he needed was to find why he was doing it. They started inspecting the house. Hawthorne was divorced, bad relationship with his ex-wife, a daughter that she barely let him see, and Sherlock could tell that his record of casual encounters was quite extensive. They searched everywhere, and aside from the frankly alarming quantity of drugs he stole from Lacuna and sold to pharmacies, he couldn't find anything remotely incriminating.

It took them around two hours to search the whole flat and Sherlock was furious. He had been so certain that this case was solved, that Hawthorne was the one behind the murders, but nothing.

He started roaming desperately through the living room, the library, feeling his patience wearing thin and his own anxiety and nervousness kicking in. He gave a helpless yell and threw one of the books to the other side of the room.

Lestrade grabbed him by the arm and stopped him with a "SHERLOCK!"

"It was supposed to be him", Sherlock said, sounding defeated. "It was supposed to be him."

"But it isn't. And we have to keep the investigation going."

Sherlock slumped himself in one of the chairs of Hawthorne's living room. "I don't have clues Lestrade", he whispered, bringing his hands to his head, "I don't have clues and John is involved and John could be in danger and I'm going nowhere-"

"Shut up. This isn't helping you, Sherlock. Now, let's try to organise a bit of this mess, we don't want Hawthorne to suspect anything once he comes back", Lestrade said, offering a hand for Sherlock to stand up.

*******

They came back to Scotland Yard afterwards. Sherlock wished he could grab his own wall and hang the evidence and the pictures there, but John couldn't know anything. _John_. He had promised him he'd be back home early, and now it was late afternoon, and the files hadn't arrived yet and Sherlock needed something, anything. He felt exhausted, not physically, but emotionally drained. It was in moments like this that he felt the itching, aching need for a seven percent solution, only to make him feel better for an hour or two.

He was sitting on the chair at Lestrade's office. They were both silent and he hadn't realised that Lestrade was staring at him until he spoke up. "No, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked up in surprise, Lestrade was staring at him with a fearful expression, mixed with a bit of disappointment and Sherlock could tell that Lestrade knew exactly what was going through his mind. Sherlock raised and enquiring eyebrow and Lestrade turned to look at Sherlock's arm. Sherlock's eyes followed his gaze and he realised he had been scratching his left arm, just above the wrist, and the need had become so unbearable that he had drawn blood out of it. He pulled his shirt sleeve back down, he didn't remember having pulling it up in the first place. He cleared his throat, but didn't know what to say.

Lestrade broke the silence for him. "Go home. Go home and make sure that John is safe."

Sherlock shook his head. "I can't."

"He needs you."

"He needs me to solve the murder! And that's what I'll do!"

"Sherlock, you haven't gotten any new clues since you sat here, simply because you can't stop thinking about him-", Sherlock opened his mouth to reply but Lestrade pointed at him menacingly. "So stop scratching your arm and go see him, go make sure he's safe. We won't make any improvement until we have the files."

Sherlock hesitated, but then looked down at his arm. Lestrade was right, he was going nowhere and he _needed_ to see John. Finally he nodded, "just, promise me that you'll let me know as soon as the files arrive."

"Of course I will. Now go and get some rest. You both need it."

Sherlock nodded and walked out a bit numbly. He felt tired and his skin was starting to ache where he scratched it. He grabbed a taxi and tiredly made his way back to Baker Street. He needed to make sure John was safe.

*******

John was. The smell coming from the kitchen told Sherlock he was.

He climbed up the stairs fast, filled with a deep need to see John again. He didn't even know what was happening right now between them, he just felt that John, being at Baker Street, being with him, was the right thing. The best thing.

John was cooking. He was standing in the kitchen and smiled as soon as he turned to look to Sherlock.

And Sherlock couldn't help himself, he really couldn't. He was too far away from John, he needed to be close to John.

He walked towards him.

_Closer._

John was looking at him expectantly.

_Closer_.

Finally, oh finally, he got to stand in front of John, who simply kept that lovely, beautiful smile on his face as he softly said, "hi."

That smile was all Sherlock needed as a confirmation. John didn't regret it. John wanted it. Sherlock closed the small space between them and kissed him, a bit hesitantly at first, but then John gasped and the kiss deepened. Sherlock wrapped his hands around the back of John's neck, and kissed him eagerly, it had been far too long.

John kept his hands too far away, avoiding touch. Probably for the better, since they were full of the tomatoes he'd been squeezing.

When they broke the kiss, John's breathing was already ragged. "You didn't reply to my message."

Sherlock frowned and took out his phone. He unlocked it and effectively, saw a message from John, from two hours ago. _Exactly how long is not taking long?_

Sherlock smiled. It felt good. He knew he should have told John something, but right now he didn't care because there was a weird feeling spreading over his stomach that hideously felt a lot like 'butterflies' at the thought of having someone waiting for him at home. No, delete that, having _John_ waiting for him at home. It was a hideously wonderful feeling.

"I missed you", was all Sherlock said and he meant it.

John's face did a weird expression, very akin to a pout but then he nodded. Suddenly he turned to look at the stove and exclaimed, "shit! The pasta!"

"Making dinner, are we?", Sherlock said with a smile on his face.

John nodded while paying attention to the meal. "Yeah, wanted to surprise you. Since you never eat during cases, I thought I could force you to do it so."

"That won't work", Sherlock said stubbornly, turning towards the living room and hanging his coat and scarf.

John laughed and kept cooking the pasta. "We'll see."

Sherlock stood in the middle between the living room and the kitchen, staring at John's back. "You aren't wearing a cane", he observed. "You're leaning your weight in both feet."

John nodded. "Feeling good today. Yes."

"Did you go out to buy all the things for the meal?"

John flinched. "You weren't supposed to find out", he said, putting the plate on the table. "Dinner is served!", he said excitedly as he brought his own plate and a bottle of wine.

The dinner looked delicious, Sherlock had to admit. As soon as he walked towards the table his stomach started making sounds, reminding him of the fact he hadn't eaten anything since the day before. He ate all of it, it tasted delicious.

As soon as they finished John looked at him with a pleased smile on his face. Sherlock stood up and sat on the couch, while John brought the glasses and the wine to sit next to him.

"So-", he started as soon as he sat. "-tell me about the case."

That caught Sherlock off guard and he tried to come up with a good lie but he couldn't find anything within his brain. John was looking at him expectantly and so Sherlock decided to tell him the truth, just not all of it, he had told John enough lies. He explained that there were serial murders and the thing they had in common was a weird scar in the back of their heads. John didn't need to know he had it too, he'd probably never find it out. It was out of his field of view, so that was an advantage. He raised his eyebrows at Sherlock's story and smiled softly, encouraging him to go on.

He went on to explain some details, like the last victims, but he didn't mention Lacuna or anything that might trigger John's memory.

Funny, that. Before, he wanted John to remember, now he was doing all on his will to make him _not_ remember.

They were by their third glass of wine by the time Sherlock finished his story and he was feeling a little loose. John was staring at him, and Sherlock met his gaze, not taking his eyes off him. John's eyes had darkened, just as the man had gone quiet. He stared at him as if he was the most incredible thing he's ever seen. And Sherlock wondered for a second, how was it even possible, how could John think that of _him_?

Then, slowly, slowly, slowly, John licked his lip. Sherlock's eyes roamed down his mouth, down his neck, down his whole body. He looked up again, John's eyes said it all.

And Sherlock leant closer and their lips met. It was a hungry kiss, a kiss filled with desire, filled with a need to recover all of the hours they've spent apart the whole day. Sherlock grabbed John by his forearms and pulled him closer, feeling the slide of their tongues together. John let out a soft moan, and kissed him deeply, deeper, deeper, and Sherlock was struggling to breathe, but this was all the air he needed, John was all he needed. His hands went up to grab the back of John's head, pulling at his head a little. John gasped with pleasure.

"I- ah... I couldn't stop thinking about you all day", John admitted as soon as Sherlock's mouth left his to place an open-mouthed kiss on his neck.

He reached down and started unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock felt drugged by desire, felt like all his rationality was giving way to feel all of these sensations. But his brain eventually woke up.

_Scars._

No. He couldn't let John see them. He didn't want John to see him. Didn't want John to pity him. Didn't want to see the downturn of his face as soon as he felt them beneath his touch.

He grabbed John's hands, intertwined their fingers and stared at him. John was breathing hard, and so was Sherlock. They needed each other desperately. This was new, all of this. Sherlock had needed John desperately every single day since January 29th, 2010, but he had never needed him like this, like he needed to pull him apart and to merge every single bit of him with his own until they were one. No. The need had never been so absorbing, so deep, so _real_.

John smiled softly at him and Sherlock let go of one of his hands to run a hand down his cheek. John closed his eyes and leaned into the touch.

"Bed", was all Sherlock could say, because John's face was so soft, his skin was so soft and his smile was so soft that he felt his voice breaking.

The last time he had cried had been just before he jumped, listening to John's voice, saying goodbye.

He shook the thought away and stood up, still holding John's hand, holding it tightly. They walked towards the bedroom and as soon as the door closed, John put his arms around Sherlock's neck and kissed him.

_I love you_ , Sherlock thought, not for the first time.

Slowly, Sherlock laid on the bed and pulled John with him. John smiled as he kissed Sherlock's lips, over and over. He straddled Sherlock's thighs with his legs. Sherlock held him by the back, kissing him back just as eagerly.

John sat up to start unbuttoning his shirt, but when he did so, the fabric of his shirt hurt Sherlock's bruised arm, who couldn't help but flinch a little at the movement. "Ouch", he whispered.

"I'm sorry", John said looking around to see where he had hurt Sherlock, and he caught sight of him moving his arm rapidly to hide it from John's view. John, however caught his arm before Sherlock managed to hide it and frowned. "Hey", he said softly, "what happened?"

He moved Sherlock's sleeve up and stared at the wound Sherlock had done to himself. John's eyebrows burrowed and his face turned serious, he turned to look at Sherlock's face, and then at Sherlock's other hand, as if he could tell exactly what had caused the injury. Sherlock felt as if he was raw naked, examined, observed, he felt small.

Small and ashamed.

John stared at him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he took Sherlock's arm, raised it to his lips and started to place feather-light kisses on the bruised skin.

Sherlock stared at him, speechless. All the shame he had felt before was gone, replaced by a deep, huge sense of longing, of affection.

_I love you,_ Sherlock thought, not for the first time.

John stared at him as he let go of Sherlock's arm.

"John", he whispered.

"Shhh", John said placing a finger over his lips. Sherlock shuddered at the sensation of John's skin. He sat up and linked their lips together once again.

Sherlock laid down once again, but started roaming for John's shirt buttons, and slowly started taking off one after the other after the other. "Sherlock", John said, out of breath, into his lips.

Sherlock stopped and stared at John's chest, marvelled by having the chance of looking at him like that. He had been allowed to touch John's shoulder scar, but he had never been able to see it. He felt as if John was opening the last of the barriers who protected him, letting him in. He touched John's skin, softly, exploring his chest with the pads of his fingers.

John gasped and stared at Sherlock fixedly, biting his lip. His eyes were dark.

He bent down and kissed him urgently, their kisses turning frantic and urgent. Sherlock kept touching John's chest, his ribs, his stomach, stopping over his heart.

_Racing. Pulse elevated._

He moaned into John's mouth as he felt John's fingers moving through his chest, still covered in his shirt -and so he planned it to keep being for as long as he could- John apparently seemed eager for seeing other parts, his hands stopping over the very notable bulge in Sherlock's trousers.

John palmed it and slowly unbuttoned his trousers, with nothing but one thin fabric standing between them. He moved low and started kissing Sherlock's jaw, then his neck. John started to pull down his own trousers and his pants, and Sherlock felt every sensation in his body rising. He tried to store every single movement in his Mind Palace, but he simply couldn't make his brain work right now.

John kept kissing Sherlock's skin until he stopped over his pants. Sherlock could feel John's breathing there and felt like he was collapsing. He needed it. "John-", he murmured.

John looked up and smiled at him, his breathing was fast and ragged, he looked just as eager as Sherlock felt. His hands skimmed up until they landed over Sherlock's pants and he pulled them down, Sherlock gasped at the sensation and at the intimacy of this.

The night before had been different, there was a raw need for relief, but now, here, there was something deeper than that, something that dared not speak its name, and he could see it in John's eyes, and he could feel it himself.

John stared at Sherlock for a long moment, taking him in. His shirt was unbuttoned but not off him, but aside from that, he was naked, exposed, all for John. After a while, John sighed and threw Sherlock another one of his smiles. "Jesus. You're perfect, Sherlock."

Sherlock felt aroused just by listening to John's voice, no, scratch that, by John's words, by the simplicity with which he said it, as if he meant every single word of it. Sherlock shook his head internally. He was far from perfect, the scars on his back were the proof of it.

He didn't say anything, he simply reached up and ran his fingers through John's forearm, feeling the muscles beneath. John turned to trace the path Sherlock's fingers had made and they simply stood like that, speechless.

_I love you_ , Sherlock thought, not for the first time.

John's head turned and he stared at Sherlock. His eyes never left Sherlock as he descended, slowly, slowly slowly, until Sherlock could feel John's breathing on his groin.

"Please, John", he didn't care about the desperation in his voice.

"Shhh-", John said, before licking a line along Sherlock's cock. Sherlock cried out.

John took it as a good sign and started planting kisses over the to of Sherlock's cock, small, chaste kisses than later turned into open-mouthed, raw kisses, as John took him in.

"John!", Sherlock exclaimed at the sensation as John slowly let go of his cock until he had only the top of it in his mouth. Then, just as slowly, he started going down again. Sherlock couldn't help it. He jerked his hips up, desperate to keep feeling the heat of John's mouth once again. John moaned as Sherlock moved, and Sherlock kept doing it so until he apparently let go too much and choked John.

John moved out for a moment and coughed. Sherlock threw an arm over his face, filled with embarrassment. "Sorry, sorry", he said.

John laughed and shook his head, "no, it's fine. Better than fine actually."

Sherlock looked down, feeling himself blush. John bent down once again and took him in his mouth once again. Sherlock tried to control his hips from jerking as John licked along his length and it didn't take long, because the simple sensation of John's mouth on him, the idea of what they were doing and what he was doing it with, was enough to drag him over the edge. He needed something to hold onto and roamed through his own body until he found John's head, and he started stroking his scalp, pulling at his hair, just a little. John moaned loudly and the vibration of his voice was the last thing he felt before he came. John kept his mouth there, swallowing the come, and Sherlock could feel the smile drawing in his face. It was perfect. Having John doing this was perfect.

"That was-", he started but didn't know how to finish. The English language had 1,025,109 words and none of them was enough to convey what Sherlock was feeling at this exact moment. John sat up and Sherlock pulled him down to kiss him. Well, sometimes a kiss said more than 1,025,109 words. Sherlock could feel his own taste in John's mouth and he felt overwhelmed by it.

John kissed him eagerly and pressed his hips to Sherlock's thigh, Sherlock felt eager to return the favour. He roamed down and took hold of John's cock. John moaned into the kiss and shivered at the contact. He started stroking and striking and stroking, marvelling at the sensation of John's skin under his fingertips. John kept kissing him, as if he was physically unable to leave Sherlock's lips. Sherlock felt John's growing orgasm and led him to it, and John was coming, coming and kissing him and kissing him and kissing him.

When Sherlock pulled apart, John was trembling and sweating. He frowned. "Alright?", he asked.

John nodded and leant down to kiss Sherlock's jaw. Sherlock closed his eyes and held him tight towards him, not caring about the mess they had just made. Eventually, John stood up and brought a tower and cleaned Sherlock thoroughly. He tucked himself into bed, as close to Sherlock as he could manage, wrapping an arm around his torso.

Sherlock held him by the shoulders and placed a kiss to the top of John's head. He felt his own eyes drifting closed, the exhaustion of the day finally dragging him. "Goodnight, John", he whispered, expecting not to get a response, because he felt John's breathing deepening.

Moments later, John replied, "goodnight Sherlock", placing a kiss over his chest.

It was 6:30 in the morning when the text woke Sherlock up. He opened his eyes and blearily read the text from Lestrade.

_The files arrived. Come soon._


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a shortie, but I bet you'll wish it wasn't any longer! ;)
> 
> I wanted to state that this is not a case fic, I don't like case fics and find them boring, so I try not to turn my fics into case fics, although with this one it was almost impossible. Just keep in mind that all of the details of the case are somehow related to John and Sherlock's relationship. 
> 
> Enjoy! (or not) x

"Sherlock?", John asked.

_Damn it._

"Sherlock?", John asked, a bit louder.

Sherlock got out of the bathroom buttoning his shirt. He had been expecting John to be still asleep when he left but apparently that was asking for too much. "Yes?"

John looked up to him through half-lidded eyes and a soft smile that later turned into a yawn. Sherlock stopped at the entrance of the bedroom and couldn't help but smile back, taking in the sight of a sleepy, naked, John, with his hair disheveled and with the early sun's reflection bathing his skin with traces of gold. He was so lucky. He was so lucky of being able to see John like this, positively _glowing_.

"Morning", Sherlock said, still smiling, his mind providing him the memory of last night.

John's smile widened, "morning, love."

Sherlock leaned in and kissed him, John giggled into the kiss. It lacked the urgency of the night before, the hunger, the need, now it was just a kiss of reassurance, of greeting, of _goodbye_ , because Sherlock had to go.

As soon as they broke the kiss, John stared at him and seemed to realise that Sherlock was all dressed-up. He frowned. "Where are you going?"

"Scotland Yard. New advances on the case."

John nodded, aiming to sit up. "Alright, give me a minute and I'll be ready."

"No, John", Sherlock said pushing him back towards the bed. "You'll stay here. Your leg needs healing."

John sighed and threw his head back. "My leg is perfectly fine, thank you very much."

"You still have the limp", Sherlock replied and as soon as he said it, he regretted it. John's face transformed into a snarl.

"Oh, I see", he said, his hands balling into fists. He stood up and looked at Sherlock with an expression akin to rage. "It's not about the leg, is it? You just think it might slow you down."

Sherlock sighed. "John, it's not-"

John shook his head. "I'm bloody exhausted of staying here, doing nothing, feeling like a fucking creep-!"

Sherlock stopped him, his face dead serious. "Don't. Don't you dare say that."

"Am I supposed to feel otherwise?", John replied, his voice a bit above a whisper.

Sherlock shook his head. He didn't know what to do, what to say, he couldn't take John with him, that was certain, but he couldn't just force him to stay there, bored out of his mind, he knew that in that aspect him and John were alike, both craving for an entertainment, both craving for danger, both loathing boredom. John put on his robe and walked out of the room, limping.

Sherlock stood still, thinking, what could he possibly make John do? He couldn't ask him to write about this case, nor could he ask him to write about a previous case, he didn't know if writing would trigger his memory, remind him of that blog. _The blog_ , he remembered with a sigh. It had been a long time since he had thought about it.

A thought crept into his mind, he raised his head, struck with an idea. "Oh!"

He walked towards the living room and found John sitting on his chair, reading the day's newspaper.

He grabbed the stack of folders Lestrade had brought him as soon as he came back from the death. Cold cases from his time away. That would keep John enternained for long enough. He smiled as he placed them onto John's lap.

John closed the newspaper and eyed the folders with a frown. "What's that?", he asked, a bit sharply.

Sherlock crouched and smiled. "Old cases that Scotland Yard hasn't solved yet, which are most of the cases in London."

"And what? You want me to choose one for you?"

"I want you to solve them."

John looked up to see him. "What?"

"I want you to solve them. It won't take much legwork, just a lot of investigating on the internet and the such, so your leg will keep healing."

John kept looking at Sherlock, surprise drawn in his face. "Sherlock, Scotland Yard couldn't solve them-"

"Yes but you're smarter."

"You're making that up", John said, looking doubtful.

Sherlock stared at him, his eyes fixed on John's, he wanted his look to say it all, to reassure him. "I'm not", was all he said.

John stared at him for a moment, completely silent, his mouth slightly open, looking adorable and soft and perfectly kissable. "Alright."

"I'm sorry. But I don't want to put you into more danger. Please. At least until your leg heals."

John smiled softly at him. "It's okay", he whispered as he moved his head forward, until his lips touched Sherlock's, just a touch. "'s okay."

 _I love you._ Sherlock wanted to say. He closed his eyes and kissed John with all his might.

Sherlock took John's hands and slowly caressed his knuckles as they kissed. He remembered that moment, back in the rooftop when he talked to John and reached a hand, desperately, hopelessly trying to hold it one last time before letting go.

He held them for a while.

John smiled, breaking the kiss. "Have fun at the case."

Sherlock placed a chaste kiss on John's cheek. "Have fun with yours."

"Oh, I will."

*******

Lestrade was holding a giantic cup of coffee which was indication of the detective's current mood. As Sherlock walked in, he rubbed his forehead.

"Lestrade."

Lestrade stood up and put on his scarf and his coat. Autumn was giving way to Winter faster than they expected to. "Come on."

"Where?", Sherlock asked with a frown.

"To Lacuna. I'll explain on the way."

Sherlock's frown deepened but he followed Lestrade, turning to look at the stack of folders laying on the DI's desk. Lestrade was holding one of those in his hands.

"Alice Pollock. I've heard that name before, I'm certain I've heard her name before", Lestrade said thoughtfully.

"So?", Sherlock asked.

"So, look at her folder", Lestrade passed Sherlock the folder he had been carrying in his hand.

Sherlock opened it, it contained a form with her name, her picture and contact information of her, along with a tape, a tape just like the one they had made of John, the one he had listened to as he felt every single tiny thread of light leaving him, sorrow and pain leading the way. It felt like it had been ages ago, yet it still hurt. After all that had happened between him and John, it still hurt to think about it.

He closed his eyes and shook his head, willing the sound of John's broken, desperate voice as he talked to the recorder to go away. "What am I supposed to see?"

"Working place."

"Lacuna, Inc." Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "Please, Lestrade probably they put that on every patient."

"John's one said he worked at the ER. With address and everything", Lestrade said.

Sherlock swallowed. His voice was barely above a whisper when he asked, "did you listen to-?"

"No", Lestrade replied.

Sherlock felt relief at Lestrade's reply, Lestrade couldn't know. He didn't want him to listen to John's voice, he didn't want him to realise that it was all Sherlock's fault, he didn't want to see the hate in Lestrade's eyes as he listened to John's testimony.

He cleared his throat. "So, once again, explain to me, what are we doing on our way to Lacuna? A client who erased her mind now works there, so what?"

Lestrade shrugged. "I have a hunch."

Sherlock stared at him with a _that's the most stupid thing I've ever heard face._

Lestrade shook his head, "listen, I've heard that name before. Somewhere. What if she's involved in all of this? We can both agree on the fact that someone who works there surely must have something to do with the murders, what if her name might lead us to a clue?"

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes. Honestly now even Lestrade's hunches seemed to make sense to him. That was how lost he felt with this case. All he wanted to do was go back to Scotland Yard and look at John's folder, see what else it said, if it could solve another piece of the mystery. And he didn't mean this case.

*******

"Mr. Holmes! Is everything okay?", Melissa asked with a frown as soon as they stepped into Lacuna.

_Hawthorne is still in holidays. Replacement coming tomorrow judging by the preparations. They've had a low income of clients lately. Melissa is looking exhausted. She's had to do all of Hawthorne's work by herself. Didn't have help with the organization of the folders to send. No one else knows about our suspicions._

Sherlock turned to look at Lestrade, feeling that he didn't even know what to tell her. Nothing was 'okay', they didn't have a single clue, John was in danger and this clinic kept being a mystery. He rubbed his forehead, trying to supress his growing headache.

The problem, he thought, was that no matter how hard he tried, whenever John was concerned, he simply couldn't focus. There was no way he couldn't avoid considering John a victim, relating anything and everything he saw and heard about the case to John, he couldn't stop thinking about the danger John had put himself into because of him.

"I need to talk to one of your workers", Lestrade said, passing the folder to Melissa and opening it in front of her, "Alice Pollock. Working place: Lacuna Inc."

"Well I think that's a bit difficult to accomplish", Melissa said, rubbing the back of her neck.

"We need her. Any suspicions she might have, any threats she might have received because of having been a client in here. I think she asked for our assistance because the name sounds oddly familiar", Lestrade said, interrupting her.

"We could also look at her scar. Ask her if she remembers something about the procedure, or the reason why she ended up working here", Sherlock continued, his brain working at a hundred miles per hour.

Melissa raised her hand, silently asking both of them to shut up. "Mr. Holmes, Detective Inspector, Alice is dead."

"Dead?", Sherlock asked, his brain now moving at 200 miles per hour.

She nodded.

Sherlock's phone beeped with a message alert. He ignored it.

"Excellent! How was it? How long ago? Was it ever solved?"

Lestrade was staring blankly at Melissa as he said in shock, "a cold case."

_Beep._

"Did anyone from Lacuna had to do with it?, did you interrogate your own- what did you just say?", Sherlock said, turning to look at Lestrade.

_Beep._

Lestrade nodded slowly, as he tried to remember the details of it. "A case. About a year ago. Murder. Unsolved."

_Beep._

Sherlock closed his eyes, muttering to himself, "a cold case, a cold case, a cold case", willing his brain to work faster faster faster.

His phone sounded once again. This time it was a call.

_Mycroft._

Sherlock's brain stopped. Sherlock's heart too.

"Mycroft?"

 _"About three months after the procedure Alice listened to her tape. We still can't understand how she got it"_ , Melissa explained to Lestrade.

"Brother mine, I've been informed that Dr. Watson has left Baker Street."

_"She arrived here, asking for an explanation. You should have seen her, she looked so sad, so desperate, so hopeless."_

"What?", Sherlock said, feeling his blood getting cold, his hands shaking. "Where?"

_"Hawthorne explained it all. She just kept crying and left running."_

"He's taken a cab, heading - Northeast."

_"A couple of days later she came back, asking us to hire her. After the initial shock, she seemed fascinated about understanding how all of this worked."_

"Northeast? Stop him! What are you waiting for!?"

"I'm afraid that if I do so, my integrity -and yours- would be compromised."

_"She had been working with us for a year or so."_

"However, my cameras are following his every movement."

_"Her body was found in her own apartment. Stabbed. We never understood why. Alice was such a wonderful girl."_

  
 "Hold on-", Mycroft said, leaving the phone silent for an excruciating moment. "Yes, the cab has just stopped."

_"I always suspected her ex fiancé. She said horrible things about him."_

"Where?", Sherlock asked desperately.

Mycroft stood silent for another moment before replying, "Scotland Yard."

That was all Sherlock heard. He felt the blood that had gone cold now rushing to his head, a thousand scenarios going in his mind.

_The files._

"Lestrade, stay here!", Sherlock yelled as he ran out of the door.

He stopped a cab with a shalking hand, and as it went to Scotland Yard, he looked at the last messages he had received. They were from John.

_Alice Pollock. Ring a bell? Here it says she worked in Lacuna._

_Sherlock, answer me!_

_Sherlock!_

_I'm going to Scotland Yard._

He closed his eyes, trying to make his brain slow down for just a moment.

Lacuna was ten minutes away from Scotland Yard.

It felt as if two hours had just passed. Sherlock's left hand was clenching and unclenching into fists as he fought the urge to just yell at the cabbie to drive faster.

He tossed the money hurriedly at the cabbie before walking (running) out. As soon as he entered to Scotland Yard, he found Donovan standing in front of him, her arms crossed. "Freak, your husband's looking for you."

Sherlock shook the insult and the implication away and asked her, "where is he?"

"Lestrade's office", she replied with a shrug.

_No._

Sherlock pushed past her and ran towards office 512. The elevator was too slow. Why was everything so slow today? The door was closed and Sherlock could tell just from looking at the windows of the entrance that it was all dark, the curtains closed, blocking the light of the sun.

They hadn't left it like that.

He aimed to open it. It took slightly longer than it should have. He blamed his shaking hand.

"John?", he asked softly.

He saw a ruffle of movement, followed by the sound of a button being clicked.

A second later, the whole room was invaded with a shaky, hesitant, wavering voice.

 _"My name is John Watson and I'm here to erase Sherlock Holmes"_ , it said.

_Fuck._


	24. Chapter 24

Sherlock went to turn on the lights. _John's file open over the desk, the folder with Alice Pollock's case splayed over the desk, the audio player in the back still sounding. John with his back to me._

_John._

_"No, no there was no such thing as a relationship"_ , a John from three months ago, with a broken, strained, slightly desperate voice said in the background.

Sherlock walked hurriedly towards the player and pressed the 'stop' button. He felt the air leaving his lungs, his heart racing, his hand shaking. He opened his mouth, no voice came out of it. He closed it, opened it again, but still no sound. Finally, he found a tiny thread, the slightest hint of a voice, and barely above a whisper, all he managed to say: "John."

Finally John turned. Sherlock had seen him before, a thousand times before. Before the fall he had caught a thousand different expressions that were universal, but somehow only applied to John particularly, who looked perfect on John.

After the fall, there were some expressions he never got to put a name to, those he also categorised, stored them carefully in his mind palace.

But this expression. This expression he would have recognised it everywhere.

It was the same face John had wore almost two years ago.

When he was staring at a dead body laying on the ground. When he was seeing said body being pulled into a gurney, being pulled away from him, feeling all his breath leaving him.

Sherlock had seen all of that. John never knew that. John never will.

John was now crossing his arms, as if they were shields, as if Sherlock was about to hurt him, tear him to pieces.

When John was angry, John didn't look angry.

It was one of his particularities, as if he didn't have enough of those. John never looked angry. When John was angry, he smiled.

Now, in front of Sherlock, John smiled. John smiled and clenched his jaw.

And Sherlock felt himself trembling under his glare. For a long moment there was nothing but silence in the room, both of them looking at each other, John's eyes never leaving Sherlock's, as if he could find all the answers there.

Sherlock cleared his throat and broke the heavy silence that was threatening to crush them both with its weight. "John", he said.

A tiny, almost imperceptible twitch of John's fingers caught Sherlock's attention: his left hand was shaking. As soon as John saw where Sherlock's eyes had drifted to, he crossed the arms tighter, hiding his hands. And Sherlock understood why he had crossed them in the first place: so Sherlock wouldn't notice the tremor.

It took less effort to John in order to find his voice. He looked down and then looked up to Sherlock, and started breathing hard before asking, "who are you?"

His voice was shaking, barely above a whisper, it contained all the rage and the hurt John was trying desperately to conceal. He cleared his throat, "Who are you?", he repeated, his voice already failing him by the end of the sentence.

"John", Sherlock said, walking towards him out of impulse.

John stood up, almost kicking the chair down as soon as he did so. He raised a hand, as if distancing himself from Sherlock and warning him to not come any closer. Sherlock stopped in his tracks, mentally kicking himself for having done _that_.

John stared at Sherlock as if he had never seen his face before, like he had done at the coffee place almost three months ago, now with his jaw clenched and his breathing ragged. "Who. Are. You?", he repeated slowly.

Sherlock flinched at John's words and it was all he could do not to walk towards him, shake him, make him see reason. He cleared his throat. "I'm Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes."

"SHERLOCK HOLMES IS DEAD!", John snapped, losing his patience. The sound reverberated through every corner of the office, and the sound was so deep that the glass of the windows almost vibrated with the volume of John's voice.

Sherlock felt his knees weakening at John's words, at the implication behind them, at the hurt concealed beneath that sentence. He swallowed. "No. I'm not. John, it's me. I'm not dead, I'm here", this time he couldn't stop himself and he walked towards John, pointing at himself stupidly, as if that would make John see the truth.

"Stay away from me!", John said, trying to distance himself as much as possible. It shouldn't have hurt as much as it did. Sherlock felt the truth kicking in: after listening to that tape, John had lost all the trust he had in him.

He knew this wasn't going to end well. There was no possible way.

John pointed with a shaky finger towards the record player. "What's that?", he asked. His voice sounded different, it was very low, but somehow loud enough for Sherlock to hear it, and it was strained by John's erratic breathing. Sherlock had never seen him like that. "Where did you get that? Who are you?"

Sherlock dragged a deep breath, feeling frustrated. He shook his head, looked down, looked up, then simply replied. "Your voice is the one there, not mine. You know better."

John closed his eyes and frowned, as if forcing his own brain to remember, as if trying to look somewhere for the memory, but he couldn't find it. He grimaced and Sherlock felt it was physically painful to see him trying so hard to remember when three months ago he had tried so hard to forget.

"Sherlock Holmes jumped off a rooftop", it was all John replied as he opened his eyes and stared at Sherlock. He swallowed hard.

"...I...", Sherlock was caught off guard. "No. I mean yes. But I'm- I'm not dead, John. I'm here. I came back. See? It's me."

John clenched his jaw again. "Did-", he shook his head. "I- I checked into Lacuna."

Sherlock nodded, biting his lip. He closed his eyes once again, feeling the corners of them starting to well up with tears. He couldn't cry, not in this moment, not in front of John.

John laughed. It was a humourless, rage-filled laugh. Sherlock felt his fists clenching, he had never feared John Watson as much as he feared him in this moment. "To erase Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock nodded, not daring to meet John's eyes.

"Because SHERLOCK HOLMES WAS DEAD!", he yelled.

Sherlock closed his eyes. "I wasn't."

"You're not Sherlock Holmes. I don't know who you are, but you're not him."

Sherlock felt as if he had been stabbed. How could he make John see? How could he explain him that all he had done had been to protect _him_? John would never believe that, ever. "I-", he closed his eyes and prepared himself for an explanation he was supposed to have given three months ago. "I faked it. I needed you to be there. I needed you to _see_. I needed you to think I was dead. But I came back, I always planned on coming back to you, John. This- ", he gestured towards the tape player, "this wasn't supposed to happen. You were supposed to wait for me, not _forget_ about me!", he couldn't avoid the strain of pain from tinting his voice, somehow he still felt angry, and if he did, he couldn't even begin to imagine how John was feeling at the moment.

They were both angry. They were both broken. They were both falling to pieces.

John looked down, breathing hard. He stood like that for a while, with his eyes closed and trying to not lose control. Finally, he looked up. "How long?", he asked. "For how long were 'you' _dead_?"

He didn't want to reply. John's eyes said it all, John wanted to believe, but he couldn't bring himself to, and could Sherlock blame him for that? "A year and a half."

John nodded, then he walked towards the chair and kicked it. Sherlock flinched.

"I'm sorry", it was all Sherlock could say, and he wished that word meant more, that that word would convey all of what Sherlock was feeling at the moment. "I'm sorry", he repeated once again, feeling his voice choking into the tangle of emotions that were locked in his throat, desperately looking for a way out. "-I never thought..."

"You-", John was starting to lose control, now not even bothering with hiding his trembling hand, it looked as if all of John's body was trembling with rage and if Sherlock saw a couple of tears starting to strain John's eyes, he preferred not to focus on them. "You made me see you die. You-", he turned to point at the tape, "jumped in front of me? I couldn't I- how, how could you do that?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head. "I had to."

"You fucking HAD to!", John yelled. "Well, look at that, it seems that I HAD to erase you from my mind!", John brought his hands to his head and closed his eyes, behind that last sentence there were sobs trying to escape from John's mouth involuntarily. "-How long ago?"

"What?", Sherlock asked, feeling as if he had missed half of the conversation.

"How long had we known each other for, before you-", he couldn't say it, he looked down and grabbed the back of the chair he had kicked, as if it was his only source of balance, the only thing keeping him from falling.

Sherlock sighed.

_-That's the hardest thing I've ever done -and you invaded Afghanistan._

_-Are you gonna see her again?- Happy New Year, John._

_-I know you for real. -A hundred percent?-Well, nobody could fake being such an annoying dick all the time._

"A year and a half. You- we lived together in Baker Street."

John's face transformed. He looked in pain, as if every part of his body hurt. "A year and a half-", he repeated after a moment of silence, now moving towards the chair and sitting on it. He covered his hands with his eyes, his shoulders slumped as if he had been drained from all the energy he had left in his body. "A year and a half and another year and a half while you were playing hide and seek. That makes three years. Three years of my life I've forgotten about."

Sherlock stood there, unable to do anything else but stare at John in shock, he still couldn't wrap his mind around what had happened, still couldn't bring himself to believe that John now knew. He closed his eyes. "I'm sorry", Sherlock whispered, "I'm sorry."

John looked at him, that same horrible look still in his face. _This is it_ , Sherlock thought.

"Did you know? Did you plan this?", John asked, no longer yelling, not sounding angry anymore, just...physically and emotionally drained. And that was even worse.

"No. John", he walked towards John but John moved apart from him. Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks. He sighed. "I- I came back and you didn't recognise me. You didn't know who I was, it was as if-"

"As if we had never met."

Sherlock nodded, bit his lip and dared himself to look at John.

John stood up, breathing hard. "I would have gone with you".

Sherlock looked up and stared at John in utter and complete surprise. John pointed at the player once again, "that's-", he dragged a deep breath, "that's what it said, in the tape. I. Would. Have. Gone. With. You."

Sherlock couldn't help but sob this time. The tears felt as if they were burning. He remembered that part of the tape completely, and to think about the pain he had put John into, to think he had almost pushed him towards the very limit...he couldn't, he simply couldn't. "No. I wouldn't have allowed you to. I had to protect you, John, please."

"Shut up!", John screamed once again and Sherlock stood still, watching him. "Shut up!", he looked down and a few, broken noises escaped from his mouth. "Why? If I erased you from my mind, then why did I have to meet you again? Why didn't you leave me alone once and for all? Why couldn't you understand that I didn't want to know anything else about you anymore? Why did you have to come back? Why did you have to be alive? Why did you allow me to kiss you? To fall-", he fell silent.

"I tried, John, I tried!", Sherlock sid, asking himself the same questions, repeating them in his head over and over. He knew he should have, he knew that this was going to happen sooner or later, why did he have to be such a selfish idiot and allow John to be his friend -and god, so much more- once again?"-but I couldn't. No matter how many times I tried to stay away-", he looked at John and met his eyes, hoping that he could see the truth behind them, "I couldn't. You couldn't either."

John closed his eyes and sighed. Sherlock stared at him, he looked as if he had grown old all of the sudden. He didn't know what to do, how to fix this, how to make this less painful. John stood silent.

Sherlock stared at him for what felt like an eternity. John wouldn't look up. He took him in, as he had done a thousand times before, looked at the features of his face, at the way he sniffed when he was angry, at the poor attempt of hiding his trembling hand. This was it, so he had to remember every detail of John, before letting go, because that was the image he was to keep for the rest of his life. His last memory of John.

He wondered what had been John's last memory of him.

Well, neither of them would ever know.

"Why didn't you tell me?", John asked lowly, breaking the deadly silence. "You had a thousand opportunities, you could have-"

"I couldn't bring myself to do it", Sherlock said with honesty.

John laughed and shook his head. "Preferable to trick poor little John, funnier than telling the truth, wasn't it?"

"I'm not laughing", was all Sherlock could say.

John looked at him as if he was one breath away from punching him, Sherlock barely managed to keep his stare without grimacing. He had never seen that in John's eyes. It looked like hate.

He broke their gaze. "And you- you haven't forgotten much, you still remember the cases, the things we did together, you just don't remember me on them."

"Great! I fucking gave myself a brain damage in order to forget ever meeting you but the bright side is that I still have 50% of my memory functioning!", John said sarcastically.

Sherlock  felt like the air in the room was not enough, his chest was too tight, and John kept staring with a horrible smirk and with his red eyes with unshed tears and he wanted to run away. "I don't know what else to say, what to do. I wish I did but I don't. If I would have known, I would have walked away, I would have kept myself as far as I could but when I found out it was already too late, and I had missed you and I was selfish and-"

John shook his head, and he looked distant, as if he was immersed in thoughts, in a world Sherlock couldn't follow him to, no matter how much he wanted to. "I-", John sighed. "I can't, Sherlock. I can't do this anymore. I can't listen to you. Please just stop talking and- stay away from me. Please"

Sherlock gasped softly and stared at John, wondering if that was what John really wanted. John looked at him and clenched his jaw. The air was heavy, loaded with words none of them dared to say. Sherlock didn't want this to end and John wanted to forget. What else was left to do? Sherlock gave up and nodded. He would have to live a life without John Watson, in an empty Baker Street, constantly wondering what he was up to.

It was as if he had never come back from the death at all. As if nothing had changed.

Except he had ruined John's life.

"I just, I need you to know that- that I'm sorry and that I meant it, every single thing that happened between us. I meant it."

John shook his head. "I can't make myself believe in you."

"I know."

John turned to look at the desk, at the folder with his name and his picture and his expression transformed again into pure one of pure, absolute rage.

He didn't say goodbye, he didn't spare a glance at Sherlock, he didn't say anything at all.

He simply stood up and walked away.

And Sherlock allowed him to.

But just before Sherlock had the last glimpse of John Watson he would ever have, he dared to speak, and asked the only thing he could possibly ask John. "Just-", he started before John got to close the door behind him and John opened it a fraction, Sherlock's voice was low, shy and broken when it said, "please just don't erase me from your mind again."

John closed the door and walked away.


	25. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I'll be perfectly honest with you: this chapter was a caprice. It's a tribute to the movie that inspired it, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and to my absolute favorite sequence from it (which actually lasts for half of the movie), there's no need for you to have watched it, but I think this is an appropriate time to fill in the void and listen to the other side of the story ahem...John's. Enjoy! :)
> 
> P.S.: chocolate cookies to whoever gets all the references to the movie within this chapter! ;)

_"Melissa, put Dr. Watson to sleep", those were the last words John listened to before he saw darkness._

_And then there wasn't darkness, not really, it was weird. It felt as if he was running towards something, yet he didn't see his feet moving. The setting was changing and he couldn't recognise what was happening- oh right, now everything made sense._

I’m in my head right now, aren’t I? , _he asked himself. He looked around, but the background was changing too rapidly, he managed to catch a glimpse of Baker Street's wallpaper, but he couldn't be certain._

_And then everything simply stopped._

_And he recognised where he was immediately._

This was the last time I saw you _, he told no one._

_He was standing in front of St. Bart's, but not exactly in the same spot where he had talked to Sherlock for the last time, a bit further away. The scene was being replayed in his brain. He saw from afar, how he had stood there with impotence, with despair, trying to talk Sherlock out of it, to no avail._

_He kept talking to no one in particular, to a very specific someone in particular._ It still hurts, you know? Thinking about this day, about all the things I could have said and never did, of all the things I thought went better unsaid. There's not a single day when I don't think about it, when I don't ask myself if it would have made any difference, if I had talked to you...

_And then Sherlock was jumping. And real John was screaming and Dream John was watching it all, unable to move away._

I don't want to watch this again _, he thought._

_The cyclist. John running, looking for a pulse. Sherlock being carried away. Dream John was frozen in the spot, forced to see the scene repeating itself._

I want to stop. Take me out of here. Take me out of here, please. Please. _The thought resonated in his mind. He just wanted to leave this place as soon as possible, it had been enough with the nightmares surrounding him._

_And then the scene changed. John looked around, white walls, the unmistakable smell of a clinic and... of course he remembered this memory._

_"You machine!", John was telling Sherlock._

_Dream John had to close his eyes. He would regret that for the rest of his life. Somehow, in his mind, that quote sounded louder. He had been angry, but he should have never called Sherlock that, Sherlock had shown him his most human side during that year and a half and he simply went and tried to hurt him with his words as much as he could._

I'm sorry _-he thought-_ If only I would have known...

_"Known what?", a captivating, deep voice almost whispered in his ear._

_Jesus, John had missed that voice. John had missed it terribly._

_He turned to find Sherlock, Sherlock with his suit and his coat and his purple shirt that -John would never admit of course- was John's favourite. Sherlock with his curly hair and his coat collar up and his cheekbones and with his face free of blood, with his blue green gray eyes, with a piercing and captivating look. He looked every bit as John remembered._

_Every bit as John was forgetting._

_"Hi. I've missed you."_

_Sherlock smiled softly at him. "I know", he replied._  
  
_John stared at him, dumbfounded, unable to look away, feeling calm and peaceful, as he hadn't felt in a long, long time. Sherlock didn't say a word, he simply stood close to John._

_The scene unfolded in front of them both: John yelling at Sherlock, telling him that friends protected each other, and walking away._

_"I didn't know it would be the last time I'd get to see you up close. Sherlock, I would have never left"._

_"That's why I needed you to leave. Because I knew you wouldn't have"._

_"I'm sorry. I- You- I never meant it. You're not a machine."_

_"Were", was all Sherlock replied._

_The scene changed once again, and John found himself running. For a moment he thought he was just jumping through time or something, and then he saw real John and Sherlock pass him by, holding hands._

_"Take my hand!"_

_"Now people will definitely talk."_

_John smiled, a real, genuine smile. The kind of smile he hadn't had since perhaps that last night. He stood there, seeing the silhouettes retreating, their hands still holding as they turned the corner, the gun falling off John's pocket._

_John would recall over and over the feeling of Sherlock's hand on his. He would catalogue the body temperature, the rawness of the skin, even the callouses from playing the violin._

_John had made the best out of the memory of Sherlock's hand holding his._

_This memory was..._

_This memory was far too important._

_And John was hit with the truth, the rude, raw truth: this memory was being erased from his mind in this exact minute._

_"Sherlock! We're going to need to coordinate", real John said, as he pulled Sherlock closer, right in front of him._

_John closed his eyes and shook his head. "No", he whispered, feeling a lump on his throat._

_"No, let me keep this one. Please, just let me keep this one."_

_"You chose to forget, John", Sherlock said, coming back to him, standing right next to him._

_"I...I don't want to forget."_

_"Too late now, I'm afraid"._

_"I want to call it off."_

_"You can't."_

_"I want to call it off", he repeated. "How do I call it off, Sherlock?"_

_"I don't know."_

_"Please. Don't let me forget."_

_"I don't want you to. This is what you decided."_

_"I don't want to. I want to stop. I need them to stop, before I wake up and I don't know you anymore. Help me. Use your Mind Palace."_

_"Have you realised that this isn't my Mind Palace? This is yours, John."_

_John stood quiet, trying to figure out a solution, quickly, before they had to go to the next memory._

_Sherlock widened his eyes and suddenly cheered up, with a triumphal 'oh!'_

_"What?-", John asked._

_"They made a map out of your memories, tracing the path where I had been with you."_

_"Yes, so?"_

_"So why don’t you take me somewhere you didn’t know me in and you keep me hidden until morning?"_

_John smiled, feeling relieved. Yes, that was the only solution. He grabbed Sherlock's hand and they started running._

_"Where are we going?", Sherlock asked as he ran along with John, not breaking the hold of their hands, just like real John and Sherlock had done a few minutes ago._

_John closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on the image he would associate the less with Sherlock. And he knew the exact moment when his brain changed the scene in front of them._

_The first thing he sensed was the smell. That horrible stench of heat and pressure and sweat and gunpowder and blood. John shivered without even opening his eyes, a thousand memories coming back to him. He felt the air leaving his lungs._

_But then he felt a hand grabbing him by the shoulder, comforting him. And he didn't feel afraid anymore._

_"Afghanistan", Sherlock remarked._

_Slowly, John opened his eyes. He felt the rustle of the sand beneath his feet, the suffocating heat and the sounds of war, drumming in his head as if there were thunders attacking over and over in the same spot. He remembered that day._

_"The day you were shot", Sherlock said._

_John nodded, trying to control his breathing._

_A gunshot sounded louder than the rest, and then real John was falling, slowly, to his knees. Dream John turned to look at Sherlock to find him flinching, looking away from the scene._

_"Why here?", Sherlock asked as he deliberately ignored real John falling unconscious from pain and blood loss._

_"Because you're never here", John simply replied._

_Sherlock nodded and stood there. Time seemed to have stopped, John's unconscious body laying in front of them, Sherlock not looking at it.._

_"You still have nightmares of this", Sherlock stated._

_John nodded. "Not as common as they used to, though", he turned to look at Sherlock, "now there's another moment that causes the nightmares."_

_Sherlock stood silent. John turned back to stare at his body, which seemed so lifeless it was actually terrifying._

_John thought for a moment, considering if he'd ever regret that moment, if he would have erased it from his mind if he had been given the chance. No, he realised with certainty, no he wouldn't have, because this wound was what brought him to Sherlock in the first place_

_"I don't regret it. I never will. This moment changed everything, and I thought I was lost and that my life had lost all of its purpose, but then, then I met you-", John turned to finally look at Sherlock, but Sherlock was no longer there._

_"Sherlock?", John looked around. "Sherlock!"_

_The desert was now empty, devoid of all the wounded and the fighters. Except for his own body laying there. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen._

_"SHERLOCK!", John yelled, feeling himself panic._

_He closed his eyes, feeling his left hand twitching involuntarily._ Please take me back to him, please.

_When he opened his eyes, there was not suffocating heat, nor the smell of death, but the smell of tea and the coldness he couldn't help but associate with London, he looked around and found himself standing at Buckingham Palace. For a terrible, horrible moment he thought that Sherlock was gone, but then he was standing right there, next to him, watching John's memories as if he were watching a play._

_"They found me", was all Sherlock said._

_"How?", John asked, surprised and a bit relieved of finding him once again, even if that meant they were back on the map of John's memories._

_"Your brain activity. Whenever you thought of me, the part of the brain we were hidden in would reveal unusual activity, therefore they'd deduce that I'd be there, they found me and they steered me back to the map."_

_"What do we do?", John asked, disappointed._

_Sherlock gave the slightest of shrugs but remained silent._

_Real John had just arrived to find Sherlock covered in sheets._

_John smiled. Every time his thoughts drifted back to that exact moment, John couldn't recall a moment when he had felt more at ease with himself, happier, less lonely._

_"Are you wearing any pants?"_

_Dream John and Sherlock laughed along with real John and Sherlock. John's smile eventually faded._

_"What am I going to do, tomorrow when I wake up?", John asked, turning to look at Sherlock._

_"You'll wake up just like every morning. Fetch yourself a cup of tea and feel as if you'd just had a bad dream. That's all it'll be for you. All of this, a bad dream."_

_"Will you remember me?"_

_"What will be the point in doing it so?", Sherlock replied, not quite meeting John's eyes._

_John turned to look just in time to see the sheet slipping off Sherlock and he caught one last glimpse of that moment. He'd be lying if he said he didn't peek a bit, it was impossible not to._

_He smiled._

_Then the scene changed and they were at the pool._

_The pool._

_Sherlock was seeing John as he stood in front of Moriarty, then Moriarty saying that people were sentimental about their pets, then Moriarty leaving, then Sherlock taking the jacket off him._

_"That changed everything. That moment", John said._

_"Why?", Sherlock said with a frown._

_"Because I realised that you cared... I didn't understand how much, but right then, I knew you cared and that was what mattered."_

_Moriarty came back saying that he was so changeable and then Sherlock turned to look at John and John nodded, and then Sherlock aimed the gun._

_"I really thought we'd die, you know, and I was surprised about how I didn't care at all. It was worth it. When I looked at you I realised it was worth it."_

_"I know. I felt the same", Sherlock replied. "That small nod you made? That was all I needed"._

_Sherlock and John fell into a comfortable silence, yet a silence filled with all the things they didn't dare to say. They stood still, watching Moriarty dancing around. John couldn't help but flinch, he hated that man, because every time he thought of him, he thought of Sherlock laying in the floor, the last scrape of his life taken away from him. He closed his eyes. What had he been thinking of?_

_They jumped back in time: their domestic after Sherlock had shot the wall, that time in which Sherlock had cupped John's face and had them spinning trying to make John's memory work better while John looked at him surprised and scared -and secretly pleased-. Dream John couldn't help but laugh at his own expression back then._

_Another jump, and John was shooting the cabbie. Dream John stood behind John, looking at his hand, his hand that stood alarmingly still, he saw his back straight, his shoulders set, his complete and absolute determination._

_"I don't get surprised easily, John. But that surprised me."_

_John smiled. "I know. It surprised me too. I didn't even stop to think, I just had to save your life."_

_"You already had."_

_John turned to look at him with wide eyes, but Sherlock's eyes were fixed on the broken glass where the bullet had passed through seconds ago._

_John leaned closer to Sherlock, just slightly closer. He thought he might feel the warmth of Sherlock's body, the soft touch of their shoulders, but he felt nothing. As if he was an illusion._

_As if they both were an illusion._

_He sighed and closed his eyes. Sherlock was still there, but John couldn't feel him there._

_"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever done"._

_"I don't want to forget this, Sherlock."_

_Sherlock stared at them, the two of them slumped against the wall, while they smiled as if they hadn't done in ages. He smiled himself. He didn't reply._

_The first time John walked up 221B the stairs creaked. Somehow he hadn't heard that sound that time, but now it was as if that creaking resonated down every single corner of his brain. Such an oddly familiar sound, that he couldn't help but associate with tea and violin strings and wallpapers and home._

_Home._

_The first time John walked up 221B, he'd never guessed it would be the last time he would walk up 221B._

_He looked around and stared and stared and stared. The skull, the Union Jack pillow, the two chairs, the wallpaper, the odd yet comforting smell of chemicals mixed with hot tea, the microscope laying on the table in the kitchen, the thumbs in the refrigerator..._

_Home._

_John closed his eyes._

_"A bit different from my days"_

_"Mike, can I borrow your phone please?"_

This is the day we met.

_"This is it, John. I'm going to be gone soon."_

_John nodded, staring at Sherlock, but not at the Sherlock that was talking to him, at the Sherlock he had seen for the very first time, in that moment when he had nothing left but an empty blog, an army mug, a cane and a gun, in that single second when his life changed forever._

_For better._

_And for worse._

_"I know", he turned to look at Sherlock now. He looked different somehow, from that Sherlock he had met three years ago. As if he was less of a mystery, as if John had gotten to know a different face from him, as if he wasn't the same man anymore._

_He looked more human._

_"What do we do?", he asked Sherlock, already knowing the answer to that question._

_"Enjoy it", was all Sherlock said._

_"The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street."_

_John dragged a deep breath._

_Goodbye Sherlock, was his last thought._

_He closed his eyes._

_Silence. Darkness. But he couldn't listen to the real world, he couldn't feel anything, couldn't see anything._

_Still not awake, not yet._

_He opened his eyes again. Everything was black._ This is the map of my memories with Sherlock, or what's left of it, _he realized with a pang._

_There was a small, tiny ray of light coming from some place, slightly far away from where he was standing._

_He walked towards it, and John realized it wasn't as far away as he thought it was._

_Distances are relative._

_He stopped to find a set of staircases, they were oddly bright in the middle of the darkness. The staircases spiralled as if they extended infinitely. John recognized them immediately._

_Jennifer Wilson's case._

_Their first case together._

_A Study in Pink._

_"I wish I'd stayed", a voice said behind him._

_John turned to find Sherlock once again, he sighed in relief. He'd get one last chance to say goodbye. "Hello again", John told Sherlock, a small smile on his face._

_"I really should go", Sherlock said._

_"So go."_

_Sherlock turned to look at him, they stared at each other for a while, none of them daring to blink, knowing this was the last time. The last time for both of them. "I did", Sherlock replied._

_John looked around. "Then what is this?"_

_"The last memory in your mind."_

_John frowned. "Why this one?", it didn't make sense, all the memories had been erased in chronological order, from most recent to oldest, what was so particular about this one?_

_"Because it's the first one in mine."_

_John didn't quite understand, but he didn't try to understand anyway. He didn't want to waste more time._

_"I still thought you were going to simply appear and save my life once again", John started, "but it's been a year and a half and I can't keep living on illusions, Sherlock."_

_"I know."_

_"I still believe it. Perhaps you'll wake me up from this nightmare and tell me you're not dead."_

_"That won't happen."_

_"I know."_

_John felt his breath quickening, why was it quickening? His fists were clenching and unclenching, and right then he knew, he knew before the tears even started to appear. And he allowed himself to cry. He'd grown tired of fighting against it. When the first one came he wasn't able to stop the storm forming in his eyes._

_When people cried, they felt knots in their throats._

_But right now, John felt a knot in his heart._

_And in his mind, and in his stomach, and in his throat._

_Sherlock was standing next to him, simply staring at the staircases, and John allowed himself one moment of weakness before forgetting it all._

_He threw himself to Sherlock's arms. He leaned his forehead against Sherlock's chest, desiring to feel the beating of his heart, anything that might help him preserve the illusion._

_He found none._

_Yet he felt the arms surrounding him, pulling him in, their warmth, so real and so present and so alive that John wondered if all of this was still part of his mind or if he had already woken up._

_Sherlock felt real._

_The rest of the world didn't._

_"I'm sorry", John whispered as he sobbed into Sherlock's chest._

_"I know", Sherlock replied, "I'm sorry too."_

_"Sherlock?", John said, leaning back just enough to look into Sherlock's eyes._

_"Yes, John?", Sherlock replied, meeting those red, tear-filled eyes._

_"Don't be dead", his voice broke in the middle of the sentence as another sob found its way out. He leaned his forehead against Sherlock's chest once again, not to listen to his heart but to hide his face. "Don't be dead", he repeated._

_Sherlock's hold tightened just a little bit. "But what would be the point? You wouldn't remember me anymore."_

_John shook his head, he could feel the fabric of Sherlock's shirt wet with his tears. "I'll be waiting. Even without knowing, I'll always be waiting. Just, please, one more miracle Sherlock, come back to me."_

_Sherlock stood silent for a while. Finally, he replied, "I will."_

_John opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock, surprise drawn all over his face. "What?", he asked, trying to make his mind function normally, but it simply couldn't._

_And then, just like that, the stairs vanished._

_And so did Sherlock._

_John turned to look around as fast as he could, but he found only darkness. "Sherlock?", he asked, feeling himself panic._

_"Sherlock?" -no reply._

_He ran through the emptiness. "Sherlock!", he screamed at the top of his lungs as he couldn't find a source of light anymore, only black._

_"Sherl-", he stopped talking and blinked._

_He was standing in the middle of nowhere._

_Everything was black._

_Why was everything black?_

_Why was he here in the first place?_

_He looked around and found nothing._

_Probably just a bad dream._

_He forced himself to wake up._

_And so he did, feeling strangely hollow._

_He could never understand why._


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm SO sorry for taking so long to update this little one! Last month has been a bit crazy since I was on my semester finals and had literally zero (0) time to do anything that wasn't university-related, and sadly that included writing. I promise next chapter will be up soon! (definitely sooner than this one). 
> 
> Thank you for your incredible support and for your patience, and for your wonderful comments, and for leaving kudos. It means the world for me! :D
> 
> Enjoy! (although maybe you won't)

_7 days, 14 hours, 32 minutes, 27 seconds._  
  
Sherlock closed his eyes. Of course he would keep count. Of course he would.  
   
It had been 7 days. 14 hours. 32 minutes. 27, no, 28 seconds.  
   
And there hadn't been a single second in which John Watson hadn't crossed his mind.  
   
It was always there, as a reminder, a constant reminder of the life that could have been, of the life that was, of the life that is. As a constant reminder of everything he had always done wrong. As a constant reminder of how caring was not an advantage.  
   
Sherlock missed John.  
   
He would find himself realising of it at the smallest of details: whenever he looked at himself in the mirror, he would remember John staring at him through it, as they locked their eyes, getting ready for Moriarty's trial, ready to face it together. He would remember John while looking at the stupid James Bond movie airing on the television. He would remember John even while typing at his keyboard, thinking over and over about that last post on John's blog: _he was my best friend and I'll always believe in him._  
  
It was everywhere. Everywhere he looked at, as if the memories that had been taken away from John had been spread all over 221B. It was as if the wallpaper was tinged with a shadow of _and you invaded Afghanistan,_ as if the kitchen table had been painted with _how are we feeling about that?_  As if the fireplace was a _people might talk._  
  
He sighed.  
   
Whenever Sherlock felt trapped, when he was chained, or in pain, like in Serbia, he retreated to his mind palace to find John there.  
   
But when he wanted to run away from John, he had nowhere to go. Because the physical space was John, his mind was John, his phone was John, 221B was John.  
   
He stared at the contact info once again.  
   
He deleted the unsent message once again.  
   
Every time they said something different. _Please talk to me. Please don't hate me for what I made you do. Please come back to me.  Please forget everything we pretended to be. Please don't forget everything we were. Please remember me. Please forget about me. Please forgive me. Please love me. Please hurt me. Please heal me. Please find someone who doesn't hurt you. Please, John, just let me see you once again._  
  
This time it was simpler. It simply said _: I miss you._  
  
What good would it make? he couldn't keep breaking John, tearing him to pieces, and trying to stitch him together. He wasn't a healer. He couldn't do that. He just broke and broke and broke and never stopped to look back. Everything he touched turned into pieces.  
   
Including the people he loved the most.  
   
Especially the people he loved the most.  
   
The tick tock of the clock was endless, painful. Every passing second was like a drum hitting on his brain, and how could he not keep count when _thirty thirty-one thirty-two thirty-three thirty-four thirty-five_ seconds had passed by since John left him? How could he not keep count when every second was another second without John?  
   
7 days, and it had only gotten worse.  
   
There were some unbearable times, when Serbia came crushing back to him, when Moriarty's voice creeped into his mind, when John's unknowing look drew itself in his mind palace, looking far too real, and Sherlock just wanted to run away. In those moments, he would simply scream, he would scream until the tears rolled down from his eyes, until his voice was sore and until the huge effort left him as a trembling mess. And the seconds tickled by in his head. Tick tock. Tick tock.  
   
The counter only got bigger.  
   
There were times when Sherlock stared over and over at the card from Lacuna he kept in his kitchen table. But he couldn't. He simply couldn't. Someone had to keep those memories alive somehow, and since John couldn't anymore, he had to. He couldn't even begin to consider how a life without John Watson in it could possibly be. Whatever he got from John Watson was better than not knowing John Watson at all.  
   
There were times when he licked his lips incessantly. They were dry and sore, the skin slowly peeling off it. Sherlock wanted to stitch it back because John had been there, John had whispered and smiled and moaned and stared at those lips and it felt as if the skin was still alive with John's memory, as if it was slowly falling apart, and taking all of John's traces from it.  
   
He craved for them. The need was too big. He couldn't ignore it.  
   
The day before, he had drawn blood out of his arm by scratching it.  
   
And he didn't do anything, he simply saw it, falling down his arm, slowly, as tiny tears of blood made their way to the carpet. There was no one to kiss his wounds anymore.  
   
And in those moments, it felt so simple to simply leave, with a thousand unsent messages and a thousand unsaid confessions in his mouth, with the scent of John still alive in his mind palace, with an 'I love you' still looking for a way to escape past his lips even though it had been 7 days, 14 hours, 32 minutes and 37 seconds since he last saw John Watson.  
   
His phone chimed. He looked at it in a hurry, knowing in the depths of his mind that it wouldn't be what he expected it to be, yet holding the endless, hateful hope that _perhaps._  
  
_You haven't left Baker Street in 7 days. Should I be worried? -MH._  
  
Sherlock scoffed. As if Mycroft had it in himself to be able to worry about someone. He stared at his phone. No new phone calls. No new texts. Nothing.  
   
He closed his eyes and placed his phone over his chest.  
   
Sometimes he could compose music in his head.  
   
It was easier when he had the violin at hand, of course, but right now walking towards his room where he had last left it seemed like far too much work.  
   
There were moments when he found his mind empty, devoid of all sounds. No do, no re, no mi. No crescendos. No allegros. Nothing.  
   
There were other moments when his head bursted with ideas, it was as if his sole breathing was a whole melody, as if every single one of his senses aligned itself to become a _partita_. As if his mouth was a G-string, and his eyes created Adagios by themselves.  
   
Of course, this was easier when John was here.  
   
In those times before the fall, when they'd just sit in silence, Sherlock would put his hands below his chin, close his eyes and see the notes drawing themselves in his mind, with a logical order, creating something that sounded almost perfect even though he had never even played it.  
   
When John was in 221B, Sherlock saw chromatic scales.  
   
But now, he only saw in black and white.  
   
When he closed his eyes, a thousand notes came to his mind, all scattered around. No matter how much he tried, there was simply no logic behind them. They drummed inside his head, as if he was playing a violin that was out of tune, a violin with broken strings.  
   
There were no nocturnes in here, no polyphonies, no obbligatos.  
   
There was nothing, but there was a lot.  
   
The sound was spreading all through his brain. It was too much. The violin screeched inside his head, its only company being the constant, permanent tick tock of the clock.  
   
Sherlock covered his ears, willing the sound to go away.  
   
Of course, it didn't. The sound was all inside his head. He shut his eyes, flinching in pain. It hurt. Everything hurt. His head, his ears, his chest. _45 seconds, 46, 47. D String, 3-2. E string, 1-3. A string, 2-1. 7 days 14 hours 36 minutes 48 seconds. G string. No John._  
  
_Make it stop._  
  
_49, 50._  
  
_Make it stop._  
  
He stood up to make himself tea. His seventh cup of the day. He couldn't remember when it had been the last time he had eaten. He wouldn't remember it anyway, his head was too busy creating a series of nonsense and seconds on a loop.  
 

 _2-4._  
  
_Morphine._  
  
_No._  
  
_Yes._  
  
He was 22 steps away from it.  
   
22 steps, plus the seven stairs leading to John's bedroom. It would take him approximately 8,5 seconds to get to it. In 8,5 seconds, 24 different violin notes crossed through his head.  
   
He had hidden them on John's bedroom -for it would always be John's bedroom- as soon as he had arrived back to Baker Street. It had been painful enough having to face that empty room once, Sherlock couldn't imagine how difficult it'd be to cross it again. That was why he had decided placing them there.  
   
Sherlock stood in the middle of the living room, looking at the stairs leading to John's bedroom intently.  
   
10, 11, 12 seconds.  
   
He squared his shoulders and prepared himself to go into battle.  
   
It took him less than 8,5 seconds.  
   
He ignored the emptiness of a room that had once held the deepest secrets of the most incredible man he had ever met, a room that had taken hold of John's screams whenever he woke up from a nightmare, or when he opened the drawer and saw the gun, and stared at it over and over and over. It had taken John's deep rumble of laughter, John's thoughts fluttering around as he wrote a new case for the blog, it had even taken hold of John's army mug, which he never left in the kitchen, considering it far too valuable for Sherlock to use it on his experiments.  
   
Sherlock ignored all the things the bedroom would keep from him.  
   
He ignored them and concentrated on the screeching violin breaking inside of his head. _Ostinato. Adagio, G string, 4-3. That doesn't make sense. E, 3-4. Overture. Glissando. No. Stop._  
  
In the end it was easy.  
   
He took the box and ran down the stairs.  
   
His skin missed the pinch of the needle, he would come to realise.  
   
The liquid slowly fell onto his vein, it was a pleasure seeing it descending descendo descending and reaching his skin, penetrating the deepest labyrinths of his body.  
   
The music -if he could call it music- simply stopped.  
   
He sighed, blinked, and felt as if he was finally seeing clearly.  
   
_53, 54, 55, 56, 57 seconds._  
   
He hadn't gotten rid of them yet.  
   
A little increase of the dosage would do. He was a chemist, he knew how to handle these things. It was easier to find the vein, and then he simply allowed himself to feel the liquid merging with his blood.  
   
His mind went quiet.  
   
He wondered for a second why he hadn't done this before. He had gone through this for... seven? was it seven? days, when he had the solution 8,5 seconds away.  
   
_Seconds are a unit of time, not of distance,_ he thought.  
   
Effects of the morphine, perhaps.  
   
He stood in the rug of their -his- living room, simply staring into space.  
   
Sherlock enjoyed when his mind went blank.  
   
But he started to worry when his mind went black.  
   
He was used to feel a bit drowsy, it had been a long time since he last took it, but he knew that always happened. However, he wasn't prepared to feel his erratic pulse. Slowing, rushing, slowing, rushing, slowing, slowing, slowing.  
   
He knew that a slow pulse brought a slow breathing.  
   
And it only got slower. He couldn't relax anymore because there was a lowering of his blood pressure and he had counted 46 heartbeats in the last minute which meant that now he was keeping count of something which meant that the good effects of the morphine were gone.  
   
He felt drowsy and tired, terribly tired. His blood pressure was too low and in the end, would it be too terrible to just leave like this? It was almost peaceful, if only he wouldn't be worrying about his pulse and if only morphine could stop the influx of John in his brain.  
   
But it didn't, so it wasn't peaceful, but it was fast.  
   
His eyes closed themselves without wanting it. The last thing his brain whispered to him: _7 days, 14 hours, 40 minutes, 20 seconds._  
   
*******  
   
The next thing that woke him up was the constant and hateful _beep beep beep_ of the machine.  
   
Without opening his eyes, he counted 64 heartbeats in a minute. So almost normal.  
   
It took him too long to realise that he had an oxygen mask on. It took him too long to realise that that was what was helping him to breathe properly.  
   
When he realised, he opened his eyes, and felt an odd sensation crippling inside of him. Most of all, he hated the familiarity of the situation, it was like a deja vu, as if he had lived this a thousand times before. It was the white painting everywhere and the smell of clinic and the _beep_ drumming in his head just as it had happened many times.  
   
He forced his eyes closed, trying to remember what had happened. Of course he remembered, and surprisingly enough, he wasn't worried about what he had done, he was worried about the fact that _he had lost count._  
  
Now he didn’t know how long had it been since he last saw John, and that was the only thing he really regretted.  
  
He remembered his eyes closing while his mind decided that it was too tired to keep thinking. After that, a string of dreams appeared, over and over, as he remembered everything that John didn't. Then he felt a couple of arms picking him up, but he couldn't tell whether it was dream or reality, everything was a blur.  
   
He didn't understand what was wrong, he had done worse, much worse before. This was a somewhat safe dosage. Well, considering how much he used to take before, this wasn't that bad. His body had grown used to morphine, he wasn't supposed to collapse, lest of all, to end up in a hospital.  
   
He forced himself to breathe normally, and that was when he deduced he wasn't alone.  
   
His brain was decidedly too slow.  
   
He lifted his head suddenly. "John?", he asked into the oxygen mask almost involuntarily, clinging into the only name capable of keeping him right amidst all this hatful familiarity.  
   
A low chuckle reverberated. A chuckle without humor.  
   
"Sorry to disappoint you, brother dear."  
   
Sherlock rolled his eyes and removed the oxygen mask off himself. "What are you doing here, Mycroft?"  
   
He immediately put it on once again, apparently his body was too slow at waking up, and his lungs were slower than normal.  
   
Mycroft, or course, realised of that. He narrowed his eyes as he stared at the mask, a smirk drawing in his face. He stared at Sherlock for a while. "What do you think I'm doing here? Assisting my addicted brother as I have done many times before."  
   
"Not _many",_ Sherlock replied.  
   
"I consider seven times to be many", Mycroft replied calmly. "This is my fault", he said looking down, a twinge of disappointment painting his face, "I should have seen it coming".  
   
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "This isn't about you, Mycroft, no matter how much you desire to be the center of attention."  
   
Mycroft stared at Sherlock for a long time, with that hateful look with which he observed, Sherlock felt as if he was being stripped naked. "Do you think I'd enjoy being the center of attention in _this_ situation? And no, of course it isn't about me. I think we both know exactly about who it is."  
   
Sherlock didn't feel like talking, he was growing tired, his eyes closing themselves without him intending to. He sighed through the mask, of course Mycroft would know the motives behind his OD. Right now, it was so obvious that not even Scotland Yard could ignore it. The simple yet absolute reason hidden behind the simple yet absolute name: John Watson.  
   
They didn't talk about this. Sherlock never asked for details, Mycroft was never willing to give them. They ignored the problem, over and over, until Mycroft would grow tired and threat him to send him to rehab, or to tell mummy and daddy. That was how it always worked. This time was not the exception.  
   
_Oh stupid. Stupid stupid stupid._  
  
He had been too slow to find out. _The paintings the smell the beeps the windows the view the sound of the phone beeping outside the sound the wheels of the medicine carts make._  
  
He wondered for a moment how it could have been possible that 120 seconds had passed since he woke up without him realising that he had been hospitalised in John's ER.  
   
Sherlock closed his eyes. No. This couldn't be happening, but of course it was, of course, this was Mycroft's idea of a proper punishment, a proper lesson to learn, to bring a broken, desperate, unconscious Sherlock and show him to John. He could have been taken anywhere, _anywhere,_ but he was brought to the place where he would have wished the least to have been brought to.  
   
Perhaps John hadn't gotten to see him. Perhaps he had been too busy attending other patients, other people who _deserved_ to be treated by John Watson.  
   
Of course not, if this was Mycroft's idea then he would do anything to make sure that the plan works.  
   
He looked around and tried to deduce. He tried to find the smell of John's shampoo and that particular scent of tea and home that was so undeniably his around the room, but it was impossible because it all smelled like disinfectant and ethylic alcohol, a stench so strong that it would kill all of what was left of John's smell.  
   
He looked around, to see if he could find something, anything that belonged to John, his stethoscope perhaps? a few drops on the table next to the glass of water placed on it that might indicate his tremor was back?  
   
But there was nothing.  
   
Or his brain couldn't find it.  
   
He finally gave up, and forced himself to ask Mycroft. "Why here?", he whispered.  
   
"What?", Mycroft asked, raising an eyebrow.  
   
"Why did you bring me here? out of all the places you could have taken me to, why here?", he sounded defeated, disappointed. He couldn't help it.  
   
Mycroft cleared his throat and sat up straight. He looked down and stared at his umbrella for a long moment before finally replying, "I am afraid I wasn't the one who brought you here, Sherlock."  
   
Sherlock frowned.  
   
"-That was John Watson's doing."  
   
"What?", Sherlock said, sitting up and wincing, because his muscles hurt but now it didn't matter.  
   
"He was the one who found you."


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... Sherlock said 'I love you' in the new trailer and I want to die... Enjoy the new chapter while I go through a mental breakdown that will last til January 1st!

Sherlock tended to consider all the possibilities all the time. It'd been part of his job, to take into consideration the myriad of scenarios that could apply to a given situation, and that's what he'd done all his life. Well, except for that time John checked into Lacuna.  
   
And except for this time as well.  
   
He had remained silent for far too long time, his eyes closed.  
   
He knew Mycroft was staring at him, probably with an expression akin to wonder and amusement but right now he couldn't care less because _John Watson was the one who found you._  
  
And what the hell was John Watson doing in Baker Street after he had made it definitely, completely, 100% clear that he wanted nothing to do with Sherlock nor with anything related to him? He suddenly decided to appear to save him from overdosing? Just like that?  
   
Hard to believe, but Sherlock Holmes didn't know what to believe in anymore.  
   
Mycroft cleared his throat and decided to change the topic, "any constrictions in the lungs? sleepiness?"  
   
Sherlock remained silent.  
   
"Dizziness?"  
   
"Where is John?", Sherlock finally asked, feeling as if those were the only words he could mutter at the moment.  
   
Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes. He didn't reply.  
   
"Mycroft", Sherlock continued, his tone a bit harsh.  
   
"Here. Double shift.", Mycroft replied, looking disappointed at his little brother, perhaps for asking such questions after waking up from God knows how many hours/days of unconsciousness.  
   
Sherlock nodded, closing his eyes. He felt his lungs weren't strong enough yet, and the shock had left him feeling exhausted.  
   
"Do you want me to-?"  
   
"No", Sherlock interrupted, clearly knowing what Mycroft was going to ask.  
   
Mycroft didn't say another word.  
   
Sherlock didn't want to hear them.  
   
Did John pass by? Did he see him in here? Connected to the oxygen and probably receiving an equally high dosage of Naloxone in order to control the overdose? Or did he simply leave him here and decided to be apart from him? How did he find him? Why did he find him? Did Sherlock say anything to him? Did he look at him, with his low blood pressure and his slow breaths and thought he'd die? Did it hurt to see him like that? Does he hate him right now? Will he come back to check on him?  
   
 _Will he come back to check on him?_  
  
Sherlock wanted to ask all of those questions to Mycroft, they were almost forcing themselves out of his mouth, but he couldn't, he couldn't show Mycroft how much he needed the answers, how much he _ached_ for those answers.  
   
So he simply bit his lips. They were dry. The skin still peeling off them, taking the last traces of John with it.  
   
And he closed his eyes.  
   
********  
   
The intense light coming through the windows woke him up. He squinted, his head was pounding and he felt as if his eyes were burning. _Effects from the morphine,_ he thought, because he had been there before.  
   
And he knew what would happen later, but he didn't want to think about it. He had been in that same place seven times before, he had already enough experience to know what was coming next.  
   
His hands were shaking, he could feel his own body temperature dropping, as if in contrast to the outrageously sunny day London was having.  
   
He opened his eyes. Mycroft was sitting in front of him, reading a book, an eyebrow raised. "You're awake", he stated without taking his eyes off the book.  
   
Sherlock only groaned in response. "Need-"  
   
"No." Mycroft replied, interrupting Sherlock, who was about to finish his sentence with _morphine_.  
   
"Hurts", was all Sherlock could say. He shut his eyes closed once again. Mycroft frowned and looked around, as if he hadn't realised that it had already dawned. It was 7 a.m, if Sherlock could judge by the position of the sun.  
   
"Of course it must hurt. Still no morphine."  
   
"Painkiller?", Sherlock asked.  
   
Mycroft just shook his head, and kept reading the book, as if nothing had happened.  
   
Unfortunately, Mycroft knew how to handle Sherlock in these situations. They had been in the same position many times before, and he didn't even flinch, no matter how much Sherlock begged.  
   
 _Exactly what an addict needed_ , Sherlock secretly thought. Still, it didn't make the whole experience more bearable, nor it made Mycroft less annoying.  
   
Then the door opened.  
   
And John Watson came in, reading the medical archive he was holding.  
   
Sherlock sat up as soon as he saw him. _Hasn't slept in two days, hasn't gotten breakfast yet, tired but likes to have something in which to occupy his time, his left hand is slowly trembling, he hesitated in front of the door and now is pretending he didn't even realise where he was entering to, thinks I'm still unconscious._  
  
John looked up and their eyes met. He stopped dead in his tracks. For a second that somehow felt far too short and far too large, they simply stared at each other. John's face didn't reveal anything, no surprise, no excitement, no disgust, nothing. Sherlock simply held his breath.  
   
 _I'm sorry. Please talk to me. I can't do this without you,_ Sherlock wanted to say, but didn't.  
   
Then John's eyes left his and Sherlock felt as if the warmth that he had left in his body had completely vanished as soon as John looked away.  
   
John focused instead on the vital signs on the monitor. He looked at the heartbeats -ignoring the sudden increase on them-, the blood pressure, the influx of oxygen, and wrote them on the clinical archive. It took him longer than average, but he looked deeply focused on the task at hand, as if his life depended on it. During that time, he didn't spare a glance at Sherlock, he kept his attention solely on the machine.  
   
Sherlock stared at John's hands, at the one holding the archive and the one holding the pencil, the left one often trembling a bit, as if he was receiving an electric shock. He could recognise those hands everywhere.  
   
Mycroft's eyes hadn't moved from the book he was holding.  
   
There were so many things that Sherlock could have said, so many things that he could have asked, but he couldn't find the strength to do it, not without probably saying _forgive me, stay, take care of me, I need you._ That was definitely a bit not good.  
   
So he stood silent as John kept track of his signs.  
   
He stood silent as John turned to leave.  
   
John went to open the door, but just before he did so, he turned to look at Sherlock once again. The mask had fallen off, or he had forgotten to put it on once again, because when their eyes locked, John looked so filled with pain, with his jaw clenched and his breathing ragged, he looked angry, desperate and so terribly _hurt._  
  
And Sherlock's self-control slipped off him, and he couldn't help himself from opening his mouth, "John", he whispered, and it came out so broken that he wished John hadn't listened at all.  
   
"Don't", was all John replied, looking away and opening the door. He looked at Sherlock once again, the mask firm in place now. "Don't", he repeated, and then he walked away.  
   
"Unwise, brother dear", was all Mycroft said as soon as the door closed, his eyes fixed on the book he'd been reading.  
   
Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes, wishing he could have known how many days hours minutes and seconds had passed until he saw John again.  
   
But now it was time to start the counter again.  
   
*******  
   
It would have to pass 8 days, 17 hours, 23 minutes and 10 seconds before he saw him once again.  
   
He had expected to see John soon, after all he had been the one to check on the vital signs, which meant that he had been the one keeping an eye on him.  
   
But, Sherlock would realise with a pang, he had chosen not to keep doing it.  
   
"Good morning, Mr. Holmes, I see you've woken up, how are we feeling?"  
   
Sherlock could have scoffed at the attitude of that nurse if he wouldn't be wearing that damn mask on his face, so he didn't reply.  
   
"I'm Mr. Scott and I'll be assisting you now."  
   
Sherlock widened his eyes and stared at him, then he took off the mask for a moment. "I thought Dr. Watson was the one in charge", he said, trying not to sound hurt.  
   
"He was, but he's been busy and asked for a replacement."  
   
"I refuse the replacement."  
   
The doctor actually laughed at Sherlock's words. "Not your choice to make, Mr. Holmes."  
   
"I think it is. Bring Jo- Dr. Watson immediately."  
   
"I'm afraid he is busy, Mr. Holmes, and the orders were clear. There's nothing I can do. Now let's check on your general state. How are you feeling?"  
   
He asked as if what he had just said was meaningless, as if it shouldn't matter that John was no longer in charge, as if Sherlock shouldn't worry about that fact that John saw him and left, that John abandoned this, abandoned him. He asked as if the earth was still moving, as if the very cores of it hadn't collided piece by piece, he asked as if life kept on, as if it was a minor happening and nothing else, as if the world was the same place it had been five seconds ago.  
   
Since Sherlock saw John walking in, he forgot about the pain and focused on analysing him, on thinking about what he could tell him, of how to reassure him, of how to make things better. But now that there was no chance to see him again, to talk to him and to explain, Sherlock's determination was replaced by a pointing, stabbing pain taking control all over his body.  
   
He sighed, closing his eyes in defeat and placing the mask back on. Right now he needed it, because the constriction in his chest felt as if it was blocking the influx of air. "Hurts", he whispered.  
   
The nurse struggled a bit to understand but once he did he simply asked, "what does?"  
   
"Everything does."  
   
And it was true. He couldn't distinguish the physical pain from the mental one, because it all fucking hurt, from the tips of his toes to his fingertips, from his knees to his scalp, it all hurt, as if all the places John Watson had seen, had touched, had kissed were now suffering the withdrawal.  
   
Of course, the medical opinion would beg to differ. The medical opinion would say that his body is suffering the morphine withdrawal, not the John Watson withdrawal.  
   
Idiots.  
   
"We will keep you monitored. The Naloxone managed to counter rest the amount of morphine in your body, meaning that it got to stop its effects, but since your body had received the morphine, is now requiring more of it. We will treat you through the withdrawal."  
   
They didn't do that. Doctors treated the overdose, but never the collateral damage that brought the aftermath. Why would they keep him here? He just wanted to leave, to leave and never come back, never step on this place, ever again, never see John Watson ever again.  
   
"...As per Dr. Watson's request."  
   
He wanted to stay.  
   
He closed his eyes and nodded, flinching.  
   
"We'll administer some paracetamol, but it's all we can provide during the withdrawal, Mr. Holmes."  
   
"I request Dr. Watson"  
   
"Not possible at the moment sir, I'll let you know when he's available. For now, is there anything you need? Anything you need assistance with?"  
   
"Yes, there's something-"  
   
"Yes?"  
   
"Leave me alone and make sure no one else enters this room. Goodbye", he said, turning slightly to the side, away from the nurse's view.  
   
The nurse stood there, looking confused and taken aback for a moment, before sighing and saying "yes, sir", as he opened the door and left.  
   
As if he would have such luck. Nurses came and go as if his room was an open bouffet, and every once in a while other doctors would check on his vital signs. He got his mask removed two days later and Mycroft would keep an eye on him most of the time, and when he wasn't there he kept his minions by the door, guarding it. He would escape through the window but he was on a third floor and felt too weak to do it so, plus, John was there.  
   
Actually, he would have come with a plan to escape through the window, had he wanted to.  
   
But John Watson was there. And he needed to see him. So he tried to come up with a plan to see him again.  
   
He didn't get to. He slipped past the door while one of Mycroft's minions flirted with one of the nurses, but the minion realised of it and called for backup. Two minutes later he was tucked into bed again, scowling.  
   
And so days came and went. The timer always played in his head, Mycroft always had a new book to read, Sherlock had a new plan to plot and John a new excuse not to visit him.  
   
 _It's okay, it's for the best,_ Sherlock told himself. But he knew, deep inside, that it wasn't okay, and that it would never be okay. A world without John Watson would never just be _okay._  
   
It hurt.  
   
He was under surveillance constantly. Mycroft had seen him like this before: the tremors the sweating the paranoid thoughts the scratching the dissociation the terrible moods. He was used to all of that.  
  
 _Morphine is composed by carbon (17 times), hydrogen (19 times), nitrogen and oxygen. As an opioid analgesic, using it in high doses created physical addiction._  
  
Carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen and oxygen.  
   
And none of those compounds were the ones causing the current pain that was spreading throughout his body.  
   
Perhaps the pain of withdrawal was somewhere along his body, hidden in a little corner, but it was blurred, taken over by a bigger, deeper pain, a pain that he had no idea where it started and where it ended. He didn't know anymore. He didn't know how to stop all of this.  
   
Except he did. He did know how to stop this. Naproxone was commonly known as the antidote for morphine, but John Watson was a stronger kind of antidote. Or a motivator. It all depended on the situation.  
   
He had spent 8 days in the hospital, refusing most of the food, not getting much sleep and wondering most of the time about John, trying to control the tremors and the sweating while pretending that _everything was fine._  
   
When his mental counter hit four days, Sherlock refused to eat more food. He was threatened to be fed through an IV, he still refused, and then he got the IV.  
  
John didn't come again. Not once, not by mistake, not to check up on Sherlock's health, nothing. He asked nurses and other doctors about John but the replies he got were vague and simple.  
   
The night before that eighth day, he had a dream. A very vivid dream.  
   
 _He was in the hospital and heard a door creaking opened, then a voice, a male voice that spoke clearly, "your shift was over an hour ago, Dr. Watson."_  
  
 _Someone sitting next to him cleared his throat and spoke, "I'll stay here during the night."_  
  
 _"Double shift?"_  
  
 _"Emm...no. This patient, he requires my assistance."_  
  
 _"Relative?"_  
  
 _John stood silent for a while. "Something of the sorts. Not really. Just an... a..."_  
  
 _"What happened to him?"_  
  
 _"Overdose. Morphine overdose."_  
  
 _"I'm sorry."_  
  
 _"It's alright. I don't- I don't know him."_  
  
 _"But you just said-"_  
  
 _"I don't. He just- he needs me here. He's still unconscious. I'll stay tonight."_  
  
 _"Alright then. I'll fetch you a blanket."_  
  
 _"Ta."_  
  
 _The door closed. He could only see darkness, he felt his body unresponsive, as if he was trapped in one of those dreams where he felt like he needed to run but he was rooted to the bed. Now, he simply wanted to turn and look at John, stare at him the whole night, for who needed sleep when John Watson was there._  
  
 _A hand grabbed his._  
  
 _"Wake up, you bastard. Wake up. You can't do this. Don't do this to me. Wake up. For me."_  
  
 _He felt his hand being raised, and then something soft. Lips, kissing his knuckles._  
  
 _He wanted to run he wanted to turn he wanted to open his eyes he wanted to be okay he wanted to promise John he'd be okay for him._  
  
 _"Wake up Sherlock, please, if you wake up I'll-"_  
  
 _"Doctor Watson? Here's your blanket."_  
  
 _"Thank you."_  
  
He woke up startled, he didn't know. It all seemed so real, so completely real. Yet most of his dreams managed to bring that kind of reality and that didn't mean they had happened at all.  
   
He opened his eyes and looked around. Mycroft was asleep, sitting next to his bed.  
   
No John.  
   
He chose to close his eyes and fall asleep again. Perhaps there, he'd find John Watson again.  
  
*******  
   
At some time during the afternoon he opened his eyes again, this time to a door opening, producing exactly the same sound it had made when it had been opened in his dream.  
   
He squinted to the sunlight filtering. He felt the start of a headache forming itself, and he turned to ask -yell at- Mycroft to close the curtains.  
   
But when he opened them, Mycroft was no longer in the chair next to his bed.  
   
He turned to look around and gasped.  
   
"John?", was all he managed to say.  
   
John stood in front of the door, his fists clenched and his jaw set. He nodded. He walked towards him slowly, as if he was in a minefield, and he felt like each step could be his last. Finally, he stood in front of Sherlock.  
   
He cleared his throat. Exactly the same sound he had made in his dream.  
   
"You- um- You'll be discharged today. Your brother's downstairs, signing the papers", he said, unable to meet Sherlock's eyes.  
   
Sherlock nodded, feeling awkward and uncertain of what to say. "Thank you."  
   
John finally looked up to meet his eyes. He kept his expression neutral, but his eyes betrayed him. He walked towards Sherlock slowly, painfully slowly.  
   
Sherlock held his breath as John approached him, his mind went blank. Then John stopped, checked on his vital signs, moved a bit the dosage of the IV, turned to look at Sherlock once again, and took his hand.  
   
Without taking his eyes off Sherlock's, he slowly took the IV off. Sherlock couldn't help but grimace a bit, otherwise he remained silent.  
   
John wasn't staring him with a look that said _I forgive you. I'm glad you're awake, I'm glad you're here, I'm glad I'm taking your hand, I'm glad you're alive._  
  
Instead, he fixed him with a look that said _how could you have done that?_  
  
Sherlock swallowed.  
   
Someone had to break the silence.  
   
"John-"  
   
"Shut up", John replied, letting go of his hand, and turning his back towards him. His breathing was ragged, and it looked as if he had turned from looking resigned to looking furious. "Shut up."  
   
Sherlock did.  
   
John seemed to calm himself and turned to look at him.  
   
"One hundred and ninety milligrams of morphine were found in your body. One hundred and ninety."  
   
Sherlock looked down and remained silent.  
   
"One hundred and ninety milligrams is A LETHAL DOSE!", he yelled.  
   
Sherlock kept staring down, he wasn't going to reply, John had told him to shut up. Plus, what could he say to make things better?  
   
"You looked as if you had died- you were unresponsive, you would have died had I not found you there!"  
   
Then John went on with a string of _I can't believe you could be this selfish, did you want to kill yourself?, how could you do that? You almost died_ and all those things he was used to listening over and over.  
   
"Why?", John said, his voice trembling a bit. "Just why, Sherlock?"  
   
Sherlock closed his eyes. "I wanted it to stop."  
   
"What?"  
   
"My mind. I needed it to stop. I needed to forget. I needed something."  
   
John stared at him silently, then he laughed, one of those hateful humorless laughs.  
   
Now it was Sherlock's turn, "what were you doing in Baker Street?", he asked quietly.  
   
John looked up. "What?", he looked taken aback.  
   
"You found me there. What were you doing there? I thought you were- you didn't want to- you made it quite clear."  
   
John looked around. "I um, I- needed to pick up some stuff I had left there. I needed-"  
   
"Your cane", Sherlock said, unable to hide the twitch of disappointment in his voice. _Of course. He wanted his closure. And you thought he had done it because he wanted to talk to you. Idiot. Big, blind idiot._  
  
John cleared his throat and nodded. "Yeah. No one answered the doorbell, so I- em- used the keys you had given me."  
   
 _I never gave them to you. They were always your keys._  
  
"-And came in to find you in the floor, unconscious, a syringe right next to you. Hardly a difficult deduction."  
   
Sherlock closed his eyes. Why had John to find him like that? all the traces of life left off him, all the traces of what could have been? why did John got to see him tore into pieces? The last scrapes of who he was taken away from him?  
   
"I'm sorry for what you witnessed."  
   
"So you're not sorry for what you did, but you're sorry because I _saw_ you doing it?", John replied, the anger back in his voice.  
   
"It took away the pain. For a few seconds, it worked."  
   
John simply stared at him. "Was this your way to manipulate me into forgiving you?", he asked.  
   
Sherlock widened his eyes. _No. No no no no no. Was it?_ "No. I never could have predicted you'd appear. They stood silent for a moment, in a quietness so grand that a leaf falling to the ground would sound like a drum pounding. "-It was my way of manipulating myself into oblivion."  
   
"It was your way of manipulating yourself into death", John replied, his jaw set.  
   
"What would it have mattered anyway?", he said without much thought.  
   
John stood straight, his posture rigid. "Don't. Say. That."  
   
"I-"  
   
"Just- shut up for a goddamned second. Don't you dare, don't you dare say those things."  
   
Sherlock looked at John with an expression that meant _just because I don't say them it doesn't mean I don't feel them._  
  
"I've got to go", John said.  
   
 _No._ "Yes."  
   
"I- yes."  
   
 _Stay._ "I'm sorry."  
   
"No you're not."  
   
"I'm sorry you had to watch."  
   
"I'm sorry your way of coping is by drugging yourself to death."  
   
"I'm sorry you had to go."  
   
"No. We're not playing this game. Goodbye."  
   
 _Stay._ "I'm sorry for ruining everything."  
   
"You didn't. There was nothing to ruin", John said, anger and pain drawing in his features.  
   
Sherlock felt as if he had been punched. Suddenly, the pain, the endless, indescribable pain was back with a deep intensity. "Thank you", he whispered, "for everything. For nothing. Just, thank you."  
   
John nodded.  
   
"John?", he asked, choking himself on such a simple, yet complex word.  
   
John turned to look at him.  
   
"Can-", he whispered, feeling the tears welling up his eyes. "I know I don't deserve this, but- can I ask you a favor?"  
   
John stared at him expectantly.  
   
"Please- please allow me to talk to you one last time. Please."  
   
John looked at him hesitantly.  
   
"I- I promise you I will let you go, I'll leave you alone. I just need to talk to you one last time. Please let me know you'll let me talk to you."  
   
John kept looking at him and stared for a while. Finally, without saying much, he nodded.  
   
Sherlock felt relief spreading all through his body. He smiled weakly at John, allowing the tears to fall down his face, just a little bit.  
   
"Thank you. Thank you", he whispered.  
   
John looked at him one last time and walked away.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little treat ONE day before it all goes to hell. (And I'm not particularly referring to the fanfic), best of lucks on January 1st my lovelies! :3

Alice Pollock had started working in Lacuna seven months before her death. A young woman who had recently graduated and who wanted to live on her own had just found her first job ever. She seemed like the perfect employee, she was responsible and treated the patients with care. Perhaps because she was one herself. On plain sight, Alice looked like a perfectly ordinary woman.  
   
Six months had passed since Sherlock's death when Lestrade received her case. She had been killed in her own room. The crime scene had been messy, far too messy, which was perhaps one of the reasons why Lestrade still remembered her name one year later. She had been stabbed with fury, yet they couldn't find the weapon nor the perpetrator, for the family couldn't think of anyone they could count as a suspect.  
   
Lestrade had done as much research as he could have.  
   
_The oldest of three siblings. The rebellious one, she wanted to go against society's established rules. She was smart, but didn't like studying. Constant fights with her parents. The day she died she had worked and acted normally._  
  
There was just one tiny detail that Lestrade hadn't bothered to find out. But Melissa had confirmed it for him.  
   
Alice Pollock had checked into Lacuna three months before starting to work there.  
   
Alice Pollock had died ten months later.  
   
"There has to- there has to be a unifying factor between one and the other. It can't be a coincidence, the universe is rarely so lazy. So, what's the link between Alice and the rest of the victims? There has to be a link Lestrade!"  
   
Lestrade shrugged. "The killer?"  
   
Sherlock stared at him with a _don't be an idiot_ look and Lestrade looked down. Sherlock paced restlessly around the office. It had been three days since he had been checked out of the clinic, three days since he last saw John. Withdrawal was still attacking him, but he focused all his energy on the case. The most important case of all.  
   
Sherlock blinked and remembered one of the things Melissa had said while he talked to Mycroft on the phone. What was it?  
   
_"Yes. The cab has just stopped."_  
  
_No, not that, not Mycroft, the background voice, she was whispering something in the back, saying something to Lestrade, something he probably has forgotten already, something, something..._  
  
_"I always suspected her ex fiancé. She always said terrible things about him_."  
   
"Her ex-fiancé!", Sherlock exclaimed out of nowhere, making Lestrade jump.  
   
"What?", Lestrade said with a frown.  
   
"Her ex-fiancé!", Sherlock repeated. "Melissa told us, she always said horrible things about him. Look for him Lestrade, it must be somewhere in your record before you filed her murder as a cold case".  
   
Lestrade opened the folder. _The same folder John was holding that day._ He rummaged through some of the stuff, until he found it.  
   
"Michael Jones, the only name I can find. Here it says that he and Melissa dated for-", he turned the page, "two years before their break up. That was two weeks before she checked into Lacuna, so she probably erased him from her mind."  
   
"Was he looking for revenge?", it was possible, lots of murders were motivated by sentiment. Love was a vicious motivator indeed.  
   
Lestrade opened the database and introduced Jones' name on it.  
   
Sherlock started walking faster, he felt exhausted, completely exhausted, but the adrenaline was stronger and it was what was motivating him to keep going. Well, that and the idea that he could save John Watson.  
   
Love was a vicious motivator indeed.  
   
Perhaps Jones had received the exact same card that Sherlock had found in the file Mycroft had given him, when he handed him John's tape. Perhaps Jones had felt the same rage, the same confusion and the same despair Sherlock had felt, perhaps Jones had acted on it and taken revenge, perhaps-  
   
"Sherlock."  
   
"Hm?"  
   
"He works in Lacuna."  
   
Sherlock turned to look at Lestrade and stopped pacing. "What?"  
   
"Here it says. He's messenger at Lacuna. The one in charge of sending the cards and the records. Started working there a month before Alice's death."  
   
Sherlock stared for a moment, and a tiny smile drew itself in his lips. "Oh, he planned it ahead. He planned it and followed her until he found her working place, and decided to join, to befriend her and create an alibi. How appropriate. Is he still working there?"  
   
"Doesn't say. Odd that Melissa didn't mention him to us, don't you think?"  
   
Sherlock was already grabbing his coat and walking out the door.  
   
Lestrade stood up in a rush and followed him.  
   
********  
   
John had promised he would see Sherlock again, talk to him one last time.  
   
Sherlock couldn't even begin to explain the relief he had felt all through his body when John nodded, agreeing to do it so, but John left later, leaving Sherlock without a clue as to when or where they'd meet again.  
   
So he decided to give John space, and wait until John felt ready to talk to him. He didn't pressure him, no phone calls, no messages, nothing but a promise sealed by a nod and a smile of relief.  
   
He had been discharged minutes later, and he couldn't look at John one last time to make sure that he was aware of their unspoken promise. It had been 72 hours since then.  
   
He took out his phone for the fifth time in three hours while they were on the cab heading towards Lacuna.  
   
No new messages. No calls. No voicemails. Nothing.  
   
John was certainly taking his time. But Sherlock would wait. He would wait forever. The very thought of seeing John again was what got him moving right now, looking for a way to make the world a safer place for John, expecting to give him good news once they met again.  
   
They would meet again, of course.  
   
John wasn't one for breaking promises. Was he?  
   
He sighed and put it back on the pocket of his Belstaff.  
   
"Expecting something, are we?", Lestrade asked.  
   
Sherlock remained silent for the rest of the ride.  
   
*******  
   
76 hours had passed by the time they had finished interrogating Jones and John still hadn't texted Sherlock, which was fine, perfectly fine, he needed time, that was it. He was _not_ craving for cocaine or morphine or something of the sorts, of course not.  
   
Jones didn't say much and refused to cooperate. Since he had become the prime suspect Lestrade called for backups and he was taken for interrogation at Scotland Yard. He still refused to talk, and kept asking for a lawyer.  
   
_Narcissistic tendencies,_ Sherlock thought, because he recognized the symptoms. This man thought he'd never be discovered, he thought he would get away with it. And even after being caught, he thought he would still be free, after killing Alice. Absurd.  
   
Police officers went to search his flat and found a long knife, very similar to the one that had caused the mortal injuries on Alice and on the other victims, but they would need more tests to prove it. Still, it was a evidence strong enough.  
   
Sherlock entered the interrogation room carrying the knife and explained carefully how he had killed Alice. A detailed, precise description that Sherlock had managed to put together after talking to Melissa and deducing the guy's manners.  
   
_Alice had been found dead out of eight injuries made by a knife, five of them proved fatal, four of them had aimed towards the heart. She had been knocked on the head first by a blunt object, probably the flowervase she kept at the entrance. She was in the kitchen making tea. Jones had knocked on her door and politely asked her if she had the record on a patient who had just arrived to Lacuna asking to repeat the procedure, for she had fallen in love once again with the person she had erased from her mind, and said person had broken her heart once again (how very similar to a certain story Sherlock was familiar with), Melissa had told him that Alice had been the one in charge once said patient had her memory deleted, and so she let him in. As she rummaged for the papers (an act that the impossibly imbecilic Scotland Yard had mistaken for a break-in that had gone wrong), Jones started talking to her, asking her for another chance, and she refused, for the zillionth time. Jones looked desperate, so she offered him a cuppa. He agreed. As she prepared it, he decided to attack._  
  
_After that, the rest was simple: washing the clothes, taking the knife with him. There weren't signs of struggle because the victim was already unconscious when he stabbed her. She never knew she was dying. She never fought. He never felt remorse._  
  
Jones remained silent.  
   
Sherlock didn't ask him about the other victims. Until he admitted to comitting her murder, he wouldn't say a word, for if he didn't accept charges on one murder, he would doubtly accept on more. But Sherlock was convinced they had caught the killer, which could only mean one thing: _John was safe._  
   
He matched all the criteria: being the messenger at Lacuna, he was close enough to know the patients' records and so he'd be able to choose his victims. Most of them had been found dead either in their apartments or their working places, and the records had exactly that kind of information.  
   
As to what pattern he followed, that was a bit difficult to tell, he seemed to select only patients that had taken the treatment after Alice had done it so. There weren't any similar cases before that, and no other murder that could link Lacuna as well, so Alice's murder was probably the first. A passion crime that left Jones wanting more.  
   
Sherlock wondered how he could have possibly taken so long in finding out who had done it, it was obvious, once he had Lacuna as the unifying factor, the rest of the pieces would fall together.  
   
While Sherlock stared at Jones through the glass of the interrogation room, Lestrade stood next to him. They remained silent for a moment, until Lestrade decided to speak up, "you were at the hospital."  
   
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Stating the obvious."  
   
"Overdose."  
   
Sherlock didn't reply.  
   
"Does it have to do with John?", Lestrade asked, and Sherlock asked himself if that was obvious as well.  
   
He didn't reply.  
   
"He- he found out, didn't he?"  
   
Sherlock nodded.  
   
"That's- That's good", Lestrade replied.  
   
Sherlock turned to him, with a frown and a look of desdain in his face. Lestrade cleared his throat. "Well, the lie couldn't live forever, could it?"  
   
_I expected it would._  
  
Sherlock shrugged, turning to look at the glass again, and sticking his hands in the pockets of his Belstaff.  
   
"At least there are no more lies between the two of you. Things might go back to how they used to be, you know, before."  
   
Sherlock stood still, considering what Lestrade had said, but unable to mutter a word.  
   
Finally, he turned to look at Lestrade. "Good evening, Detective Inspector. Let me know what happens with Jones."  
   
*******  
   
83 hours, and he really should stop counting.  
   
As he sat on his own, in Baker Street, on his chair facing the chair thatu sed to be John's, he put his hands under his chin and started thinking about what Lestrade had told him.  
   
And deduced it was all a lie.  
   
Fine, the biggest lie had fallen, John found out the truth and now there wasn't that feeling of anxiety and fear that always surrounded Sherlock.  
   
His biggest fear was losing John.  
   
And he already had lost him. Twice.  
   
And this time he wasn't getting him back.  
   
But there were still lies between them, because John erased his mind believing a lie and because Sherlock faked his death believing the lie that John would wait for him and he was angry because John had believed the lie that Sherlock was some kind of hero and he was angry because he had believed the lie that love could save them. John had looked disappointed when he saw him at the hospital because John had believed the lie that Sherlock was _fine_ and Sherlock came back from the dead believing the lie that John was _fine_ as well.  
   
Lies. All of them.  
   
The only truth was masked behind the hundreds of lies that tore them apart: they were both broken.  
   
And love was not enough to fix them. _True._  
  
They were both broken because Serbia and Afghanistan and Lacuna and lies and hate and pain and death and fake death stood in their way. And Sherlock _didn't know._ He didn't know how to make it better, how to fix it, and there was nothing to fix, as John had said.  
   
_But what if?_  
  
There's no such thing as what ifs in real world, Sherlock told himself. Facts were facts and that was it.  
   
_John erased me from his memory. Fact._  
  
_John found out about it. Fact._  
  
_John found me unconscious in the floor. Fact._  
  
_John hates me. Fact._  
  
_John accepted to meet me again because he pities me. Fact._  
   
He sighed, starting to feel desperate. He had thought that catching the killed would bring him some kind of relief, but there was no such thing, only despair and a nagging, obnoxious voice in his head that sounded much like John that kept telling him over and over that he was _wrong._  
  
Wrong about the facts and wrong about the murderer and wrong about himself and wrong about John. Wrong wrong wrong.  
   
He craved for morphine. But he didn't want to waste his one last chance to talk to John by meeting him in hospital once again.  
   
He fell asleep at some point during the night.  
   
He dreamed of a couple of arms picking him up, dragging him through the carpet and whispering in his ear, telling him to wake up, then caressing his brow with the softest of touches, then the sound of a phone and an ambulance.  
   
And someone holding his hand on the way.  
   
*******  
   
Sherlock woke up when he heard his phone beeping. He rummaged in his trousers, trying to get the phone out as fast as he could.  
   
After 87 hours, a text from John.  
   
_Wednesday. 7 pm. Baker Street._  
  
Sherlock smiled with relief. John would see him once again, he would finally get to explain all of it.  
   
_Baker Street. Yes. -SH._  
_Thank you. -SH._  
  
Sherlock closed his eyes. His heart was racing but for completely different reasons. It was shocking, how a few words could have a stronger effect on him than a dose of cocaine, when the right person muttered them.  
   
His phone beeped again.  
   
_You're awake. No drugs tonight, then?_  
   
It should have stung, it should have hurt but Sherlock couldn't care less.  
   
_No drugs again. -SH._  
  
John didn't reply. But somehow, that was okay. It was all fine.  
   
He would get one final chance to talk to John.  
   
He had a thousand ideas in his mind, flowing through his brain, flooding his mind palace. He discarded them all. They were a bit not good in different levels of variation. Somehow, Sherlock realized, no matter what he'd say or do, it could _never_ end well, it would _never_ end well. Too many mistakes had been made, too many things had remained unsaid.  
   
Sherlock considered all the variables over and over again.  
   
127 possible outcomes to their talk.  
   
None of them was a good one.  
   
It would never end well, anyway.  
   
He might as well say the truth once and for all. He didn't want his last conversation with John Watson to be full of lies. They'd had enough of that already.  
   
*******  
   
Wednesday couldn't come fast enough, Wednesday came too fast. No matter how much he tried, Sherlock didn't feel ready enough to talk to John again. He wondered if John himself felt ready, perhaps he didn't mind anymore, perhaps he did it so Sherlock would finally leave him alone, perhaps he did it so he wouldn't have to receive Sherlock at the ER with another overdose.  
   
And he would, Sherlock would. The only thought that had kept him sane during these last few days was the idea of seeing John again. Without John, he had to deal with his own mind, with his own worst enemy, and he knew it was a battle he would always, irreparably, _lose._ He had known that for a very long time, but John had made him feel as if he could win it, as if he was enough strong to defeat all the demons crawling inside his head.  
   
But then the truth came crushing him: John Watson was strong enough to defeat Sherlock's demons. Sherlock Holmes wasn't.  
   
_Photoconductivity is an effect through which a certain object becomes able of conducting electricity by absorbing the electromagnetic radiation of light. When there's light, there's conduction of light. It all depends on the electrons of said object and their own reaction to the radiation. Some objects can be more sensitive to light than others, such as crystal._  
  
_Imperfections within the objects introduce energy on the influx of electricity of the objects, therefore they might serve as photoconductors as well._  
  
Sherlock had gotten it wrong. All those years ago, he had gotten it wrong.  
   
John wasn't a conductor of light, John was the light. Each and every single particle of radiation capable of igniting the cells of Sherlock Holmes' body, of Sherlock Holmes' brain. Capable of igniting his imperfections as well, and turning them into pure, absolute light.  
   
All of that would be gone.  
   
And it would be fine. Because for one moment, just for one moment, Sherlock had believed it. Sherlock had felt it. Sherlock had seen the light rushing through him, scintillating and sparkling and lighting.  All of that- What was that smell?  
   
The pasta.  
   
Oh well, a little Chinese would do them well.  
   
*******  
   
John knocked on the door, uncertainly. One, two, three, four knocks on his door.  
   
Sherlock came down running, absentmindedly fixing his shirt.  
   
He opened it with a smile. John didn't.  
   
And all of the sudden the feelings came back rushing to him. He had numbed them momentarily, far too busy with trying to have everything perfect for his visit, he had managed to distract himself, but now, standing in front of John, of a John that he had hurt so many times and in so many ways, of a John that exhibited every single psychological scar on his face, and that showed nothing but the deep, searing hurt that Sherlock had caused him, he felt he would collapse, right then, right in front of John.  
   
They remained silent for a moment, neither of them capable of saying a word, probably for different reasons.  
   
John broke the heavy, burdening silence first. He cleared his throat. "Sherlock."  
   
Sherlock was thrown out of his stupor by the mention of his name in _that_ voice. "John, come in."  
   
He stepped aside so John could walk into the hallway.  
   
_Limping._  
  
John's left hand clenched and unclenched.  
   
Sherlock ignored all the other observations he'd gathered. "You- you can hang your coat there, or- or upstairs. Or if you're cold-"  
   
"It's fine."  
   
Sherlock sighed inwardly because of course John knew all of that, of course he did, he had been here before, yet he felt the need to say it, he felt the need to make that evening perfect.  
   
They climbed upstairs, John struggling a bit to reach the stairs but Sherlock knew how uncomfortable he felt whenever people noticed his limp, so he remained quiet and climbed in rapidly, as if he hadn't realized John was limping at all.  
   
When John arrived to 221B, he stopped dead in his tracks. He looked around, closed his eyes and sighed. He look defeated, disappointed, or something in between. Sherlock put his hands behind his back, without noticing he had been moving them nervously ever since John walked in.  
   
"Have a seat. Dinner will be ready in a minute."  
   
John frowned. "I don't- I-", he cleared his throat again, "fine."  
   
He sat in the chair of their kitchen table. Sherlock had moved the microscope aside and cleaned it throughly (yes, he had actually _cleaned,_ no, Mrs. Hudson wasn't behind that) and after a couple of minutes of silence, he placed the plate in front of John. John looked at it and his features softened for a second. "I thought you had _made_ dinner."  
   
"I simply said dinner was going to be ready, I never said I had _done_ it", Sherlock replied, feeling slightly more at ease.  
   
John didn't smile, thought, he started eating -it was his favorite Chinese dish after all- and remained silent. Sherlock had served some from him as well, but had eaten nothing of it.  
   
John stopped eating after a moment and looked up to meet Sherlock's eyes. He looked serious, cold, reserved, as if he had carefully managed to trap all of his emotions and place them away from his face. A facade, a carefully constructed one. "I came here to talk, not to eat. What did you have to say to me?"  
   
Sherlock looked down, feeling uncertain. He swallowed, nervousness and anxiety crawling over his body and absorbing him once again. He supposed he would have to face it at certain point during the evening, but he didn't expect to be it this soon.  
   
He had rehearsed it, over and over, what he would say, but he felt a sudden impulse to say so many things at the same time, _I miss you I need  you come back I'm sorry I'll never hurt you again I'm lying of course I will because that's what I do I hurt everything around me but I'll do my best to keep you safe I already did I caught the murderer and you're safe or as safe as you can be I never planned any of this to happen I thought I could save you one last time I thought you could save me but none of us did still if you give me the chance I'll spend the rest of my life trying to save you trying to fix you and allowing you to fix me ignite me once again kiss me once again touch me once again I need it as I never expected I would but it's only you because that's what you do you fix and you heal and you enlighten and I love you._  
  
Instead, he simply said, "the day I fell off the rooftop I needed to make you watch."  
   
John dropped his Chinese sticks, moved his chair with all the strength he could gather and stood up.  
   
Sherlock continued, "it was imperative to do it so, I needed you to be there for the final act. I needed you to be the last person I would talk to."  
   
"I can't do this", John said as he walked off the kitchen and walked away.  
   
And so, Sherlock had ruined the last conversation he'd ever have with John Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be perfectly honest with you: from now on, it's all up to BBC Sherlock. I don't know if I'll be able to keep writing between episodes because I don't know in which state those episodes will leave me, so it all depends on the show: it might totally inspire every single neuron in my brain or it might leave me heartbroken and hopeless. The point I'm trying to make is: I might take a little break from updates while Sherlock airs, or I might not, but worry not, this little one will continue updating in 2017. <3
> 
> Thank you so much for your wonderful feedback and for loving this story so much, I wish you the best in this year that's about to come and lots of luck with the episodes. :3


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi lovelies...here's a tiny ray of hope to make these shitty days slightly better. I'm sorry for everything we've been through. I can assure you that this little one will have an unambiguously happy ending, I'll try to avoid poor shitty writing ('no loose ends on my watch and I do mean that!), it won't have weak, forced, cruel 'I love you' scenes, and John and Sherlock will end up together, without the ghost of wives past. I know this can't fill into the void all this shit has left in our hearts but it's a start. I love you all and I'm endlessly thankful for your support. You guys are incredible and have motivated me to keep on after all the shit we've had to handle. Take care and never give up on hope, ever. 
> 
> P.S. I'm already preparing a S4 fix-it fic. Take your broken heart and turn it into art, right? x

It took Sherlock a couple of seconds until he wrapped his mind about what had just happened. He stood still as John descended the stairs and as he listened to the door shutting closed.  
   
It took him a couple of seconds more to run after him.  
   
John had crossed the street when Sherlock opened the door, he crossed it without even stopping to check if there were cars around, that wasn't his priority at the moment.  
   
He pulled John by the arm, John turned to look at him, surprised.  
   
"You promised you would listen to me!", Sherlock almost yelled.  
   
"I didn't know you'd bring that topic up. I didn't know what- what I was thinking, this was a terrible idea. I have to go. Goodbye, Sherlock."  
   
"You promised, John. You promised."  
   
John kept walking, which forced Sherlock to walk alongside him. That wasn't a problem, since John was still limping and his walking pace was much slower.  
   
"I need you to know", Sherlock said.  
   
"I don't want to know", John replied.  
   
Sherlock stopped walking and was surprised to see that John stopped walking as well and had turned to look at him. He closed his eyes, drew a sharp breath, and simply said what he felt. "The only thought that has kept me on after all of this was that I would be allowed to talk to you once again, John.That I would get to explain, that you'll get to know all the things you've deleted. Closure, isn't that what you need? Isn't that what I need?"  
   
John stared down and stood silent.  
   
"So please, John, listen to me, as a- as a parting gift. As a way to say goodbye."  
   
John looked up and that horrible expression that Sherlock hated to see drew itself on his face. Sherlock hated it because he couldn't put a name on it. It looked like pain, but it also looked like resentment, and it was tinged with a shade of regret. He noticed from the corner of his eye that John's hand had clenched and unclenched. He ignored it. They stared at each other in silence for a long while, just like the old, brighter times.  
   
Finally, John broke the spell with a nod, a military nod, a carefully constucted one, reminiscent of John's last goodbye to Sherlock on the grave, after his speech. Sherlock ignored it. He started walking towards Baker Street.  
   
Once John had sit on the couch, Sherlock put his arms behind his back and started talking as he paced the living room, unable to stand still, because if he did, he was certain his buckling knees would give him away.  
   
"That day I needed you to watch. Moriarty had planned to destroy me, had done for a very long time, it had to be done slowly, step by step. And he did it, he destroyed my reputation, turned Scotland Yard against me, turned the press against me, and the last thing he needed to destroy was-"  
   
"Me." John replied with a whisper.  
   
Sherlock nodded, "your loyalty".  
   
He talked about their last conversation, about his 'confession' of being a fake, of inventing Moriarty, he said they'd talked on the phone, and that no matter what John would have said, he would have been forced to jump anyway, for there was no other way out.  
   
John stared at him, and sometimes looked down, or closed his eyes, afraid that his own emotions would betray him.  
   
"I jumped off because it had to be believable. He had killed himself but that was just the tip of the iceberg, there was more, he had planned far much more. You had to be there, you had to watch."  
   
"Why?", John asked, almost out of breath, he looked angry now, just angry.  
   
"Because Moriarty had to be stopped", Sherlock replied, deadly serious.  
   
John kept staring at him. Sherlock realized a second later what he really meant. "Oh. Well, that. Because, because, you- you were the only one who- em. Really mattered."  
   
They remained silent for a moment. John simply sat there, frozen to the spot, looking as if he wanted to leave, looking as if he wanted to stay. Sherlock looked down, he could tell from John's face that it wasn't time to tell him their whole story, which was what he had planned to do. _The fall the cemetery Dartmoor the hounds I don't have friends I only got one look at us both...the woman -better avoid that- the pool, the pool, the pool you've rather shown your hand there doctor Watson... the first time we met, the time you killed a man and saved my life for the very first time even though we had just met the dinner at Angelo's the walking cane, the time I thought I had healed you._  
  
It would overwhelm him and he would leave, this time forever. So he shut up.  
   
John dragged a deep breath and broke the silence. "I had a dream-", he stopped talking and bit his lip, looking down.  
   
Sherlock walked two steps towards him, just getting a little closer.  
   
John didn't keep talking, Sherlock didn't force him. They stood still for a long while.  
   
Sherlock sighed and walked towards the kitchen to make some tea. John stood there, his head bent down, eyes closed.  
   
The next time John opened his eyes it was to the sound of the cuppa being placed in the table in front of him. He stared at the steam coming out of it, looking at the shapes that formed and blended with the air.  
   
Sherlock was taking his cup of tea in silence, but not taking his eyes off John.  
   
"I was taking your pulse", John whispered. "I couldn't find it. People were crowding you, pushing me away, and I felt nothing, no matter how much I tried, I couldn't."  
   
Sherlock stared at him, his face showing his surprise. A tear was threatening to make its way out of his eye but he tried as hard as he could to pull it back. He couldn't, however, suppress the knot in his throat.  
   
"There was no pulse. Nothing. You were dead. Your face was-", he closed his eyes. He cleared his throat, "please tell me it was just a dream."  
   
"It was a trick. Just a magic trick", Sherlock said, trying to stimulate John's memories. Perhaps they would come back.  
   
John stared at him in shock.  
   
It all happened too fast.  
   
_It takes approximately two seconds to connect the fist to the skin of the opponent. It took me longer to react. But he's entitled to. I deserve it. Why am I lying on the floor? I don't remember ever falling down, it happened too fast John is not punching me anymore. It tastes like blood my face is warm John's weight over my body._  
  
John was on top of him, his breathing ragged, as he simply stared at Sherlock. At that moment Sherlock felt the pain in his jaw and his lip, where John's fist had hit. "How. Could. You. Do. that?", he said, between pants.  
   
Sherlock remained silent. John grabbed him by the lapels of his shirt. "How could you?"  
   
Sherlock simply stared at him, his mouth tasted like blood.  
   
"How could you? Do you have any idea of what you've done? They're never coming back, my memories. They never will. Was that part of your 'magic trick' as well? Is this another one of your stupid games? Is it all a bloody game to you?"  
   
Sherlock didn't reply.  
   
"Is it funny now? Is it still funny now? How does it feel, after seeing all you've done, how does it feel? Is it still part of your game? Am I part of your magic trick as well? Did you plan this? I bet it all went according to what you had planned, of course I would fall for it, of course I-", John shifted slightly.  
   
Sherlock widened his eyes. _He's hard._  
  
John gasped and grew silent. He closed his eyes.  
   
It all happened too fast.  
   
Sherlock felt John's lips against him. Relentless bruising healing repairing damaging. Sherlock gasped against them and kissed him with just the same earnest, with the same need.  
   
John's lips tasted like tea. John's lips tasted like tears.  
   
John was pulling at Sherlock's hair now, desperately.    
   
It felt like it had been ages. Sherlock missed John with raw intensity. He placed his hands in John's hips, softly. John kept kissing him over and over and over. It was different from all the other times they had kissed, it was tainted with despair, tainted with pain, but also brightened with hope, or perhaps Sherlock was just imagining that.  
   
John stopped for a second, needing to regain his breath. He stared at Sherlock in surprise, as if he couldn't believe himself what just had happened. Sherlock stared back, feeling slowly all the air leaving his lungs. "John", he whispered.  
   
John silenced him with another kiss, as urgent and as passionate as the last one. Sherlock moaned against John's lips and moved slightly, so their erections were pressed together. _Yes. Yes. Anything you need, anything you want. What do you want John? I'll give you everything. Anything. Only to you. For you. Please, just, forgive me._  
  
John didn't let go, never stopped for a moment, but his hands moved from grasping Sherlock's lapels to slide over his arms, until he took Sherlock's hands, that were still resting on his lips.  
   
Sherlock allowed himself to be guided. John broke their kiss and stared at him. Sherlock palmed John's cock. John's eyes grew closed. His breathing was ragged, but for completely different reasons.  
   
Sherlock reached with shaky hands and opened John's trousers, trying to unzip them as fast as he could because he knew the chance would be over before he knew it. He tucked his hand inside of John's pants and grasped at John's cock.  
   
John didn't say a word. He allowed Sherlock to do this, had asked Sherlock to do it. He bit his lip and closed his eyes. As he moved his hand up and down, setting the pace, Sherlock could feel the small sobs still coming from John's body, combined with pleasure and pain and sadness and need and he just wanted to make everything better, to kiss away all the wrongs he had done so far when it came to John.  
   
John kept his eyes closed and pressed his forehead against Sherlock's chest. He didn't produce a single sound. The whole room was silent except for their panting and the fire that was burning in front of them.  
   
And John came.  
   
Sherlock released a breath he didn't know he had been holding. He clumsily wiped his hand against his shirt, and slowly zipped and buttoned John's trousers. John kept his eyes closed, hadn't moved at all. Sherlock's hands went to grab John by the hips again.  
   
And then he listened to them. To the sobs coming from John, growing louder and louder in the stillness of the room. John wouldn't move and Sherlock didn't know what to do, because all of it was his fault.  
   
He dragged a deep breath and slowly caressed John's back, until he held him by an embrace, a soft reassurance that he would be _there_ no matter what, that he'd never do any of that again, that he would be sorry for the rest of his life but will never regret what happened between them.  
   
John cried freely into Sherlock's chest. Sherlock had never seen him before, had never been so close as to experience John's sobs, he felt John's body shaking, radiating energy against him. He felt his shirt soaking wet from John's tears, but most importantly, he felt John's presence there, even if it meant it'd be the last time, John was there. He closed his eyes and placed a kiss against the top of John's head, and stood still, sensing the smell of John's hair _coconut. He changed his shampoo._ And feeling his body against his, in a broken yet beautiful way.  
   
"I'm sorry", he whispered against John's head. "I'm sorry it had to be this way. I never wanted to hurt you, John. Never."  
   
John didn't move, didn't reply, he just stood there, holding onto the embrace and leaning into Sherlock's chest as if his life depended on it.  
   
Sherlock held him. What else was there for him to do? There were so many things he wanted to say, but it wasn't the right time. He wondered if he would ever get to say them at all. It seemed unlikely, and yet it seemed unlikely that John would ever kiss him again, and he just had.  
   
But in a completely different way. It felt as if- as if John was saying goodbye.  
   
Oh god, was he? Was this all their goodbye? their closure? was it his way of getting over Sherlock? Was that why he was crying? Because this would be it?  
   
It couldn't be.  
   
Yet Sherlock had promised him he would leave him alone as soon as they had this conversation, this conversation that they didn't even get to finish.  
   
It could be.  
   
It was inacceptable.  
   
But understandable.  
   
Sherlock closed his eyes and recorded John's smell John's body John's hair John's hands John's back. He had done so before, a thousand times, and yet everytime he did so he found something new, something worthy, something magnificent.  
   
John Watson, always the unexpected.  
   
And so he held him, he held him, he held him, until the sobbing subsided. Until John stopped shaking and panting, until he seemed like he had gained all the composure he had lost.  
   
He didn't know how long they had been there, still, in silence.  
   
Time was relative. Especially when said time was shared with John Watson.  
   
John released a sigh and stood up slowly. Sherlock stared at him.  
   
He didn't know what to expect.  
   
Was he expecting to get a redemption? after what he had said to John it seemed unlikely. Perhaps John would beat him again? Or he would simply sit and eat his dinner in silence? Or ask for more explanations?  
   
He hadn't expected that outcome.  
   
Sherlock stood up and looked at John, wiping the last tears from his face and laughing a laugh that was anything but a funny laugh. He looked down and shook his head.  
   
"John", Sherlock whispered. He didn't know what to do now. _Why did you kiss me? What now? Have you forgiven me? Do you want me to tell you our whole story? Probably not, I'd only make things worse, but I'm used to that. Kiss me again. Please don't leave. Don't go. Please. I love you._  
  
"Don't", was all John replied, taking deep breaths and doing his best to try to calm down, his hands were shaking, why were they shaking. "Please, Sherlock, don't say anything."  
   
_I wasn't planning to._ But it was a lie, because there were a thousand unspoken words in his mouth, ready to be acknowledged, but no, not now. Now was not the right time.  
   
It would never be the right time.  
   
Sherlock closed his eyes as he sighed. He heard the footsteps moving around 221B, he heard the rustle of fabric against fabric, he heard the footsteps walking away.  
   
When he opened his eyes again, John was gone.  
   
And seriously, was he not expecting that outcome?  
   
Of course he was, he just didn't want to admit he was. Admitting it would mean giving up. And he never gave up.  
   
But with John Watson...if that's what John Watson wanted, he'd do it. He'd give up on them, if John asked him to.  
   
But John didn't ask him to. John beat him and kissed him and cried against him. So he wasn't ready to give up just yet. Not yet.  
   
He took out his phone.  
   
_I'm sorry. -SH._  
_Thank you for this, for all of this. -SH._  
_Good night. Or goodbye? -SH._  
  
He sighed and looked at the red carpet in the middle of the living room, remembering what had happened minutes? hours? ages? ago (times was always relative with John Watson) and felt the heat spreading all through his body. It had been painful and filled with rage and with sadness, but it had been John Watson, kissing him, crying with him, letting him into his world.  
   
He rubbed his eyes. It was too difficult, all of this was too difficult. Caring was too difficult, but loving, loving was a whole other story.  
   
As he laid in bed, in the middle of the night, going over and over through his memories with John (for it was unavoidable, it seemed as if all the memories John had erased from his mind placed themselves in his own brain to make the remembrance twice as painful), his phone beeped with a text.  
   
_Goodnight,_ was all it said.


	30. Chapter 30

Writers throughout history went over and over through the thing known as the ‘power of words’, and Sherlock never really paid mind to it, after all he simply spoke the truth, plain and simple, and he barely cared about what he said, save some exceptions. But John’s text made him realize that all those romantics actually did have a point: one word. Nine letters. And everything changed.  
   
Or not really, but he found his hope renewed. Until then, he hadn’t expected much, he looked for the next opportunity to actually attempt to make another conversation with John, but after what had happened that night, after what John had texted him that night, Sherlock felt something he barely allowed himself to feel: _anticipation._  
  
That anticipation was followed by the memory of John’s soft lips against him, claiming his with a raw and deep need, the memory of John’s hands touching his as he guided them towards his cock, the feeling of touching him, _once again,_ after he thought he’d never get the opportunity again, the feeling of John’s breathing against his neck, the heat between them and their unspoken need of merging into one another, or had Sherlock imagined that? It didn’t matter. He stored that whole memory in the depths of his mind palace, and held it as a treasure he wasn’t certain he’d ever get to claim again.  
   
But even more important than that memory was the memory of what happened _after,_ when John finally allowed himself to express his rage, his sorrow and his pain, and to let Sherlock be a part of it. It had been terribly painful, holding him as he felt John’s tears on his shirt, and he wondered how it was possible that such an incredible man could carry so much sadness within him, and it hurt knowing that he’d never be able to heal him and to help him and to love him properly, because he’d always end up hurting him. Still, that moment healed them both. In many ways. Not completely, not totally, but it was a start.  
  
The last time he had felt anticipation, however, John hadn’t recognized him, so he didn’t hold onto that _much_ hope, but the possibility of something _better_ was there and that was all that mattered.  
   
That hope, however, eventually vanished.  
   
Sherlock had little to no patience, and when three days had passed and John hadn’t attempted any other conversation (and Sherlock wouldn’t attempt for a while either), he started to wonder if he had read too much into that single word.  
   
But no, he hadn’t. The message had been clear: ‘goodbye’ as in _this is the last time I ever saw you and thank you for everything we were and for what we did and what you did for me_ or ‘goodnight’ as in _please tell me this isn’t it. Please tell me we might see each other again. Please tell me you won’t erase me from your life again. Please tell me we can be what we once were._  
  
And John chose ‘goodnight’.  
   
Did he? The more time it passed, the more improbable that sounded.  
   
Sherlock needed a distraction, and he needed it immediately, before he’d lose his mind going over and over and over the same thing.  
   
His phone beeped. New text from… no, not John. Lestrade.  
   
He should thank London’s criminal classes.  
   
*******  
   
The case was actually…a disappointment. A locked room mystery in which a private archive in a manor, which held original -and very, very classified- files from the Cold War had been broken in and some of the papers had been stolen. The family hadn’t been there and apparently, no one had gotten in during the hour in which it had happened and although the archive room didn’t have security cameras the rest of the manor didn’t register any movement nor unusual activity. It was a matter of the utmost importance because the security of England’s relationship with the U.S. and Russia might be compromised had been those papers revealed. Seemed promising.    
   
It wasn’t. As soon as Sherlock stepped into the room he could tell that there was something odd in the design of the archive, and so, he discovered a secret passage that served as a tunnel between the backyard and the room, and it had been created in the manor long time ago, judging by the amount of humidity on it. The landlord claimed not to know anything about its existence, he even managed to look surprised.  
   
It turned out that the manor had been sold around six months ago, and the existence of said passage was never made known to the newcomers. The old owner knew about the reputation of the people who were about to buy the house -the man used to be a MP during Thatcher’s administration- and he was the one who broke into the room and took the first papers he found, for he knew they were valuable no matter what.  
   
They could be found on ebay. For a _very_ high price. Thankfully, no one had made an offer yet.  
   
Sherlock rolled his eyes at the simplicity of the whole case and sighed. Scotland Yard had really gotten sloppier. It seemed impossible but, well, it was true.  
   
The only interesting part about that waste of time was that he got to ask Lestrade about Jones’ interrogation -not useful, the man still refused to speak and wouldn’t even begin to admit having killed Alice, so the police hadn’t told him he was the main suspect on the other murders. He was being held in custody until they gathered enough evidence against him-.  
   
Lestrade asked him about John, and Sherlock realized he had been distracted by the whole case. But now, remembering that John still hadn’t texted and apparently wasn’t interested in joining him on his cases, on going back to the life they used to have before, or at least on going back to be friends (something that, Sherlock would come to realize during his exile, was never something they really were, because they were always _more,_ no matter how many times John had said he wasn’t gay and Sherlock said he was married to his work) he felt the pang returning to his chest.  
   
He simply cleared his throat and said that they hadn’t talked to each other at all. _And we didn’t kiss. And he didn’t cry against my chest as I held him and tried to make up for all the things I’ve done to him. And did I dream all of that or did it really happen?_ Sherlock started questioning his own grasp on reality.  
   
“So he doesn’t know that Jones is in custody?”, Lestrade asked.  
   
“He doesn’t know he could have been a potential target. And I plan it remains unknown.”  
   
As he took a cab back home, he took his phone out and started typing a text for John, because he really needed to see him as soon as possible.  
   
 _ ~~Hi.~~_  
  
 _ ~~It’s been too long~~_ _. -Too clumsy._  
   
 _ ~~I miss you~~_ _. -Too straightforward. Might scare him away._  
  
 _ ~~I love you.~~_ _-Definitely not._  
  
 _I know I’d said it’d be the last time we’d ever talk, but I need you. I find it more and more difficult to focus knowing that you are there, somewhere where I can’t reach you, somewhere where I can’t talk to you about a case and see the gleam in your eyes, somewhere where I can’t be saved by you. Because that’s what you do, over and over. And I need you. I know I shouldn’t, I know I’ve hurt you, but I can’t help it. I need you. -SH._  
  
 _Delete unsent message?_  
  
 _Message deleted._  
  
********  
   
Later that night, Sherlock was looking at a couple of samples of blood on his microscope when the door opened.  
   
Sherlock ignored it, assuming it’d be Mrs. Hudson. Until someone climbed up the stairs.  
   
He frowned and recognized the steps immediately.  
   
Still, he couldn’t help to be surprised to find John in his flat once again, without previous notice, no text messages, nothing. He stood up in a rush. “John”, he said.  
   
John’s hair and John’s clothes were damp. Sherlock realized until then that it had been raining outside, not just a drizzle, but a heavy rainstorm. He frowned and looked at his phone, for how long had he been looking at the samples? It was 3 in the morning. He had been there for a long time, then.  
   
His eyes widened. What the hell was John doing in Baker Street at 3 in the morning? Not that he was complaining, but something seemed odd.  
   
He took another look at John. _Dressed in a hurry, rushed towards here, took a cab but didn’t even care about grabbing an umbrella, he looks concerned, confused, angry? His hand is trembling and he’s not even bothering to hide it. His hair…bed hair. Red-rimmed eyes._  
  
 _Nightmare._  
  
“John?”, he asked, tentatively. John was staring at him with that terrifying smile he could pull out so well. Sherlock swallowed.  
   
There was silence.  
   
John’s hand trembled.  
   
Sherlock breathed seven times.  
   
John blinked nine times.  
   
They stared at each other in silence.  
   
John finally dragged a deep breath and broke it.  
   
“Don’t say a word. Just don’t.” It was all John said.  
   
So Sherlock didn’t.  
   
John tried to calm himself as he stared to the ground. “I need you to tell me the truth”, he said as he finally looked up and met Sherlock’s eyes. “I don’t even know if I’ll believe you, but let’s give it a try. Be honest with me, Sherlock.”  
   
Sherlock nodded because John had just asked him not to say a word.  
   
John swallowed. “Were- um. You and I. Erm. Were we- were we together before you-”, his face looked contorted with pain and it seemed as if he was doing his utmost to keep himself still and calm.  
   
Sherlock grimaced without even intending to. Where had John taken that from? What was he doing at three in the morning asking him if they had been a couple? What was all of that? “What?”  
   
John clenched and unclenched his hand. He straightened his neck and his shoulders squared. “Before you jumped, before you made me watch kill yourself, had we-”, John stopped himself, dragging a deep breath, trying desperately to calm himself down.  
   
 _No no no no no no no no._  
   
Sherlock’s mind raced. A thousand thoughts appeared there. Were they really not? Sherlock had just had the thought that him and John had never been just friends, and Sherlock left John and John went to get him erased from his mind, and there was no other way Sherlock could define the pain in his chest while John made that little speech in front of his grave rather than ‘the pain of loss’, a kind of pain that would accompany him, haunt him for the next eighteen months before coming back, seeing John again and finding out he had erased him from his mind, only to feel that pain of loss once again. A pain of loss he still felt.  
   
And John had shown his interest on him ever since he came back. At first, Sherlock had been unable to draw to conclusions but the truth was there, and looking back at it, it looked pretty obvious now. Had John felt something for Sherlock before? It seemed impossible but-  
   
But he remembered the conversation John had had with Irene Adler back then. The way he stood there, silently, as Irene acknowledged his feelings. When she talked, Sherlock rolled his eyes, imagining some kind of comeback from John, some response, utterly denying all accusations, as he had done a thousand times before.  
   
But he just…stayed silent.  
   
And that silence had said far too much. And things had changed between them since then hadn’t they? John stopped dating, and Sherlock somehow opened himself up to John, and he honestly couldn’t think of a moment when they both had felt more comfortable with each other’s presence. It was slowly shifting into _something else,_ something _more._  
   
And then Sherlock fell. Off the rooftop.  
   
Had they just been friends? Really? When Sherlock could do nothing but hold onto his memory of John to keep himself sane while he was being tortured in Serbia? When that memory was the constant reminder that he still had something to fight for, _someone_ to fight for?  
   
It was never just a single friendship. He should have known it from the very beginning, when John killed a man to save his life after just having met for a day, and when Sherlock was able to cure John’s limp after they had dinner together.  
   
So no. It wasn’t a friendship. But they weren’t a couple either.  
   
 _Yes, you are._ Irene Adler’s voice came to his mind.  
   
 _No, we’re not._ He replied to her, mentally.  
   
 _I’m in your head, you’re disagreeing with yourself._  
  
 _Out of my head, I’m busy!_  
  
“Sherlock?”  
   
Sherlock blinked back to reality. John was staring at him with something like wariness. _He doesn’t believe me._  
  
“How- what, what made you think that?”, Sherlock replied with a whisper.  
   
John looked down. “Answer me first.”  
   
“I told you so.”  
   
“No, you didn’t. You’ve been staring at me with wide eyes and haven’t said a word! Should I assume there’s something you don’t want to say?”, John said, the anger clearly coming back to him.  
   
Sherlock sighed.  
   
 _Yes you are._  
  
“No.”  
   
“Is that so?”  
   
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes, John. It _is._ ”  
   
John brought his hands to his face, he scowled. “Then what was that?”, he whispered to himself.  
   
Sherlock had slowly walked towards him and heard him perfectly. “What was what?”, he whispered.  
   
John took his hands off his face and jumped in surprise as soon as he saw Sherlock standing so close to him.  
   
John’s eyes fixed on Sherlock’s and they stared at each other, silently. Then John’s eyes roamed down until they stopped in Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock instinctively licked them.  
   
John’s mouth dropped slightly open but then he shook his head, looked away and cleared his throat.  
   
“John”, Sherlock said.  
   
John looked at him, “hm?”  
   
“What was _what?_ ”  
  
John looked around as he shook his head. “Nothing. Just em- thinking aloud.”  
   
“You had a nightmare”, Sherlock said, staring fixedly at him. John had moved away so they weren’t that close, but still, the tension was quite palpable.  
   
“How on earth? Em- yes. No. Not exactly a nightmare but-”  
   
“A dream that involved _me?_ ”  
   
“I have to go”, John said walking towards the door.  
   
Sherlock blinked and walked towards John just in time to catch him by the forearm and stop him. “John. Don’t. Please.”  
   
“I- it was stupid. I apologize. Anyway, goodbye, Sherlock”, he said, reaching his hand out to shake Sherlock’s.  
   
Sherlock sighed, stared at John’s hand and debated for a moment whether to shake it back or not. He finally decided on doing it. As soon as he did, John flinched and rubbed his eyes.  
   
“John? What’s wrong?”  
   
John was squeezing his eyes shut. He opened them and looked at their hands. “Your- your hand.”  
   
Sherlock looked at it. There was nothing unusual about it, or it didn’t seem to be. “Wh-what?”  
   
“Running down the street”, John whispered, once again, to himself.  
   
Sherlock’s eyes widened. “What?”  
   
 _“Take my hand!”_  
  
 _“Now people will definitely talk!”_  
  
 _“The gun!”_  
  
 _“Leave it!”_  
  
 _They kept running and he jumped over the fence until John’s voice stopped him, “Sherlock, wait!”_  
  
 _He grabbed him by the lapels of his coat and pulled him towards him, their faces mere inches away. Sherlock stared at his lips. “We’re going to need to coordinate!”_  
  
“John.”  
   
“Forget it.”  
   
“No. Tell me what you dreamt of.”  
   
“I didn’t. It doesn’t matter, it’s not important.”  
   
“John, _please._ ” Sherlock looked up and stared at him, “please”, he whispered.  
   
John dragged a deep breath. He closed his eyes. “We- were running away. We were holding hands, I don’t- I don’t know why. We just were.”  
   
Sherlock gasped. “Running from what?”  
   
“Something. I don’t know.”  
   
“We were running from the police, John.”  
   
John frowned and stared at Sherlock, “what?”  
   
“We- we were going to be imprisoned. We became fugitives.”  
   
John turned away, “I knew this was just another one of your jokes”. He was about to walk out the door when Sherlock turned.  
“Take my hand”.  
   
John’s hand stopped over the door handle.  
   
“Now people will definitely talk”.  
   
John looked down.  
   
“We’re going to need to coordinate.”  
   
 John turned, slowly. He opened and closed his mouth as he stared at Sherlock. “It- it did happen.”  
   
“It’s not a dream. It’s a memory.”  
   
John laughed a humorless laugh. “So it was a lie.”  
   
Sherlock stared at him, surprised. “Sorry, what?”  
   
“We had been together”, John said, no longer looking angry, but incredibly, terribly disappointed.  
   
Sherlock shook his head, but didn’t know what to say.  
   
He had exactly three seconds before John reached the door once again. He had to use them properly.  
   
 _One._  
  
 _We had been together, but not in the way you think. Never in the way you think. I wish we had._  
   
 _Two._  
  
 _No, I don’t. Because that would have made leaving you even more unbearable. But I would have, if it meant you’d be safe. I’d do it again. I’d face it all again for you. And I’m thankful for all the things we could have been but never were, because if we had been, I wouldn’t have survived away from you._  
  
 _Three._  
  
“The first time we met-”, John stopped, his back turned to Sherlock. “the first time we met, we went to grab dinner. It looked like a date. Angelo thought it so.”  
   
“We went to Angelo’s?”, John said, not quite turning yet.  
   
“You remember him?”  
   
“Yes. Not going with you. But- sounds familiar, that’s all”, he cleared his throat, “continue, please.”  
   
“That night I made the biggest mistake I could have done. I regretted it for the next year and a half.”  
   
“What was it?”  
   
“We talked. You- you asked me if I had a girlfriend. I said no. You asked me if I had a boyfriend. I said no.”  
   
John turned to look at him.  
   
“And then you licked your lips. I should have known. I should have known but I didn’t and I told you I was married to my work. And that was it.”  
   
John stood there, silent.  
   
“The problem was that I didn’t want it to be _it._ But I only realized of that when it was too late.”  
   
John looked down.  
   
“So it never even began. We were never together. I was married to my work and you spent the rest of the time reminding everyone you were not gay and that was all there was.”  
   
“I- I-”, John didn’t say anything else.  
   
Sherlock was only able to produce a small, sad smile as the thoughts invaded his mind.  
   
John cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, for all of this. I shouldn’t have- I”, he rubbed his forehead. “You should go to sleep.”  
   
“So should you.”  
   
“Yes. I will just not, um- here. Thank you.”  
   
“Do you believe me now?”, Sherlock couldn’t help but ask.  
   
“I don’t know.”  
   
“Will you ever? Someday?”  
   
“I don’t know, Sherlock.”  
   
“I understand.”  
   
“I guess, goodnight, then.”  
   
No ‘I see you later’, no ‘I’ll text you’, no ‘let me know if there are new cases’. And Sherlock didn’t know what to make out of that single word.  
   
“Goodnight, John.”  
   
And John walked away.  
   
Sherlock fell on his bed, feeling completely exhausted, bombarded by memories and constant questions about the nature of their relationship back then. He shut his eyes closed, wanting to make his brain go still.  
   
 _Morphi- No._  
  
He fell asleep at some point, without even realizing he had.  
   
His cell phone woke him up. It beeped with a new text. From John. He squinted at the sunlight flooding the bedroom and fixed his eyes on the clock. 11:00 a.m. He had slept a lot.  
   
 _Had another dream last night._  
 _We were walking down the street and you looked at the stars._  
 _I doubt it ever happened, did it?_  
  
Sherlock smiled at the memory.  
   
He typed a reply.  
   
 _‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’_  
  
He remembered what he had said that night as he stared at the stars and John stared at him.  
   
The reply came almost immediately.  
   
 _‘I thought you didn’t care about things like that’_  
   
Sherlock smiled. So John had remembered their conversation as well. Memories of John’s blog and the solar system and their first fight at 221B came flooding to his mind. He also remembered the worry in John’s eyes when he arrived to a blown-up flat the next morning and smiled at it.  
   
 _‘Doesn’t mean I can appreciate it.’_


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I just posted a [new fanfic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9466538/chapters/21416165) (AU in which John and Sherlock are artists!) and if you're up to some fluffiness involving colors and painting, I hope you take a look at it, because it will be lovely! :3 
> 
> Once again, I can't thank you enough for all your incredible support and your love and loyalty towards this fic. Your comments and kudos have been like a therapy to me after all the grief we've been through. These past weeks haven't been easy at all but you've made it all better (is it possible to lacuna s4 of Sherlock? I wish it was). Lots of love to you! x

_Any new cases?_  
  
Sherlock’s breath hitched. He stared at his phone for god knows how long, his brain was unresponsive, it was as if every single one of his faculties had temporarily frozen by the effect of three simple words.  
   
What did it bloody _mean?_  
  
Did it mean that John was interested in joining him once again? On working together on their cases? On being just the two of them against the rest of the world once again? It didn’t make sense, they hadn’t talked to each other in three days, ever since John wrote to him about his message, and now here he was, asking Sherlock if he had any new case? It was impossible.  
   
Or maybe he was just curious. Maybe he had seen a terrible murder on the news and was interested in knowing if Sherlock was investigating it? Maybe he was just bored, on a lunch break and he wanted to talk to someone?  
   
It didn’t make sense, John was supposed to be angry with him, John was supposed to not want to do anything with Sherlock anymore, it was the only logical response to all the things that had happened between them but John was talking to him. He. Was. Willingly. Talking. To. Him.  
   
Sherlock texted Lestrade.  
   
 _I deduce you’ve got a new case and you’re lost. Am I wrong? -SH._  
  
He begged all the deities ordinary people prayed to that he wasn’t wrong.  
  
 _It’s been all over the news. We still can’t find the answer. Continental Hotel._  
  
Sherlock dragged a deep breath. So John had been asking him because he’d seen the news. Hardly a difficult deduction. He looked up the internet for news on the Continental Hotel.  
  
A known actress, Isabella Dorman, had been found dead on her hotel bedroom last night. Security footage showed how she had arrived alone to her own room and so they didn’t have many suspects.  
   
 _Isabella Dorman. Continental Hotel. Come? -SH._  
  
Sherlock stood hesitantly over the ‘send’ button, wondering if it was too bold to ask John to come with him when it wasn’t really certain that John _wanted_ to. He closed his eyes and sent it. He had not much to lose.  
   
The reply came almost immediately, Sherlock’s fingers literally trembled as he unlocked his phone.  
   
 _Oh god yes._  
  
Sherlock smiled widely and sighed in relief. Yes. John wanted to come, John was actually excited of going with him? It seemed absolutely impossible, but it seemed to be true.  
   
He looked at himself in the mirror, his curls were a mess, and he tried as best as he could to look slightly better, and since when did he care about those things? He frowned at himself, what was wrong with him? He told himself it obviously was because of the many cameras that would be there, because the case had certainly attracted the press. Of course, that was the reason. What else could it be?  
   
******  
   
By the time Sherlock arrived to the Continental Hotel, it was evening. To say that there would be some cameras was clearly an understatement, there were _hundreds_ of cameras. Sherlock looked around as the cameras turned to focus on him, the flashes were everywhere and people were shoving microphones at him. Where the hell was John? He couldn’t see him through the gigantic crowd of reporters and cameras and lights and he started feeling anxious.  
   
He hadn’t gotten this kind of attention since before the fall. By that time, John and him had become something like celebrities and so Sherlock had gotten used to see cameras following them everywhere and registering their every movement. After he came back there wasn’t a huge fuss about it, probably because John’s blog didn’t exist anymore and people slowly lost interest.  
   
Lots of things had happened ever since, and now Sherlock wasn’t so comfortable with the cameras. Somehow, looking at all those lights fixed on him, at the microphones and the reporters’ voices he had a flashback to Serbia. His knees wobbled for a moment. _No. No. No. I’m not having a panic attack in front of the cameras._ Somehow, that thought made him even more anxious and he started looking around, trying to find the way out as the flashes flashed and while he desperately attempted to control his own breathing.  
   
They didn’t stop, they didn’t care. They didn’t see what all of this was doing to Sherlock. He felt his hands getting cold.  
   
 _The basement was cold. The sound of the whip reverberated through the dim walls and so did his shouting. Every time the whip crashed against the skin a sound that would follow Sherlock in his nightmares would elicit._  
  
 _It sounded like the flash of the cameras._  
   
Then he listened to a massive gasp from the people holding the cameras and shoving the microphones, and a voice screaming through the crowd. “Let me come through! Jesus Christ would you just let me walk?”  
   
Sherlock closed his eyes and silently wondered if that voice was just a creation of his mind palace or if he was actually listening to it.  The same thing had happened in Serbia. The flashes increased the people talked louder the cameras were pointing somewhere else and- “Sherlock!”  
   
He felt a hand on his forearm and he turned to look at it. John was looking at him with wide eyes. “Are you okay?”  
   
Sherlock stared at John’s face, trying to ignore the noise and the lights.  
   
“Come.”  
   
Sherlock nodded, still panting, he knew he was hyperventilating. He knew he was. Somehow, he managed to follow John out of the crowd, John was walking back, his eyes never leaving Sherlock’s, not even to check where they were walking to. “It’s okay, it’s fine, come here.”  
   
At some point the lights grew dimmer, the sounds were distant and John’s eyes were still looking at him, with worry, but also with a softness that Sherlock would try to describe and store in his mind palace were he not so completely focused in not collapsing at the moment.  
   
He felt John’s hand on his forearm once again, guiding him. He looked at it. They had stopped. “Sherlock.”  
   
Sherlock was still breathing hard, he squeezed his eyes shut.  
   
“Sherlock”, John said softly, walking towards him. “It’s okay”, his voice sounded even closer.  
   
 _Do you remember sleep?_  
  
The voices mixed. John spoke in English, John spoke in Serbian. Sherlock didn’t know which words to listen to, didn’t know to which reality hold onto.  
   
He felt a light caress on his face, just a soft touch. “Sherlock, it’s okay.”  
   
A light caress on his hair. A hand roaming through his curls. “It’s okay. Can you hear me?”  
   
The voice in Serbian slowly faded away.  
   
Sherlock still had his eyes shut closed. But he felt John’s soothing voice, so close to him. “Hey, Sherlock. Come back to me.”  
   
And Sherlock did. Because that was the same thing John had asked him to do when he didn’t have any forces left back in Serbia, and he would do it again and again if John asked him to. He would always come back to John.  
   
He opened his eyes.  
   
At some point, he had covered his ears with his hands. John’s hands moved from Sherlock’s hair to grab at his fingers, slowly, slowly.  
   
He smiled softly at him as he took his hands and pulled them down. “Hello. We’re inside the hotel. We’re safe. You’re okay, we’re okay.”  
   
Sherlock nodded, feeling too terrified to even be embarrassed. John looked at him with worry but he didn’t say another word, his hands were intertwined with Sherlock’s, but just slightly, as if he didn’t want to push it.  
   
“They’re a bunch of idiots”, John said, anger drawing in his face. It was the first time in a very, very long while that John was angry but not to Sherlock.  
   
Sherlock nodded, still breathing hard. “Thank- thank you, John.”  
   
John handed him a glass of water one of the employees had just handed him. Sherlock didn’t remember when John had requested it. He took it all.  
   
John simply stared at him. He let go of one of his hands but still held the other.  
   
“How are you feeling? We can go, if you want.”  
   
 _We. We can go. We. We. We._  
  
Sherlock shook his head as he felt his senses slowly coming back to him. His breathing was returning to normal. “No, no, it’s okay.”  
   
“Panic attack”, John said.  
   
Sherlock closed his eyes and nodded. “I never, I hadn’t- I.”  
   
“It’s okay. I understand.”  
   
Sherlock swallowed and looked at John.  
   
The elevator door opened and Lestrade rushed into the lobby. “Sherlock! You okay?”, he said as he approached them and noticed the detective’s paleness.  
   
Sherlock nodded, tearing his gaze away from John.  
   
“John!”, Lestrade said with delight. “Good to see you around!”  
   
 _He’s still holding my hand. He’s still holding my hand. He’s still holding my hand._  
   
“Greg”, John replied with a nod and with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, because worry was still drawn all over his features.  
   
“What happened?”, Lestrade asked, turning to look at Sherlock.  
   
 _Don’t tell him, please don’t tell him._  
  
“Nothing. He just hasn’t eaten properly and felt weak”, John lied easily.  
   
 _I love you._  
  
“But is he okay?”  
   
“I’m fine”, Sherlock replied. He still felt completely weak, as if the attack had suddenly cut off the last scrapes of energy he had left. John was right, he hadn’t eaten properly in a long time but the daze of the case had been enough to rise up his adrenaline. Still, after all of that he felt completely defeated and weak.  
   
But there was a case that needed solving. And work came first.  
   
 _He’s still holding my hand._  
  
He sighed. “I’m perfectly fine. Now I believe Scotland Yard needs my help so lead the way, Detective Inspector”, he said trying to sound as pretentious as possible. He stood up and raised his chin, defiantly.  
   
Greg cleared his throat and nodded. “Yes, fine.” He walked towards the elevator.  
   
 _He’s still holding my hand._  
  
Sherlock followed him, not quite wanting to catch up to his pace, so he simply walked behind. John followed him silently, the creases in his forehead more pronounced, certainly because of his worry. Their fingers were still intertwined. Sherlock felt the need to caress John’s fingers just to reassure him that he was okay -which wasn’t true- but he refrained from doing it.  
   
When the elevator doors opened and John and Sherlock joined Lestrade, Sherlock could see Lestrade looking at their joined hands and smiling slightly. Sherlock simply cleared his throat. John didn’t seem to notice. Lestrade stood straight and looked at the elevator doors.  
   
They stopped at the fifth floor. Lestrade stepped out and just as Sherlock was about to step out he noticed John turning to look at his hands and blinking as if waking up from a daze and immediately letting it go while he looked everywhere but at Sherlock and he rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.  
   
Sherlock ignored the feeling of disappointment at the loss of John’s warm fingers resting against his but he said nothing on it, he simply walked towards the crime scene.  
   
His legs were trembling and Sherlock felt a sense of weakness he hadn’t felt in a very long while, but he ignored it.  
   
The door opened to reveal a frankly surprising crime scene.  
   
There was blood everywhere. Absolutely everywhere. John closed his eyes and sighed for a moment at the sight in front of him.  
   
“Isabella Dorman. Actress. 27 years. Was filming a movie in London, had dinner with her colleagues, stood until late at night with them, and came back to the hotel. She was stabbed repeatedly. She arrived alone to her room.”  
   
Sherlock walked around the body. John had his hands behind his back and his posture straight. The room smelled of blood and death, a smell Sherlock was used to, but that in this situation made him feel dizzy and nauseous. Still, he was determined to find out what happened.  
   
“John?”, he asked closing his eyes and breathing deeply, trying to avoid a rush of nausea.  
   
“Hm?”  
   
“What can you see?”  
   
He walked towards the body and leant down to examine it.  
   
While he did so, Sherlock leaned against the wall, trying not to expose his state. Lestrade stared at John.  
   
“Yeah”, John said after examining her. “She died at some point between around 1 a.m. and 3 a.m. The cause of death was blood loss.”  
   
As John talked, a thought occurred to Sherlock. An impossible thought that still made doubt creep into his mind. No matter how he tried he couldn’t get rid of it and he didn’t want to check it for himself but he had to.  
   
He slowly walked towards the body while John kept talking about the victim and picked up a strand of her hair, just enough to see the back of her neck.  
   
And then the world faded to black.  
   
*********  
   
“I’m taking him to hospital”, he listened to John’s voice. He felt when he was picked up and he opened his eyes. His head hurt. So did his back. His back was killing him.  
   
“Wait! He woke up! Sherlock?”, he heard Lestrade say.  
   
John grabbed him by his chin and turned his face so he could have a proper look at him. Sherlock tried to focus on John’s eyes but his head was still hurting. “Sherlock?”  
   
Sherlock nodded. “Yes.”  
   
“I’m taking you to hospital immediately”, John said in a rush, his voice sounded agitated.  
   
Sherlock frowned. “No! No, no. I’m not going to hospital. I’m perfectly fine.”  
   
“You just passed out on the crime scene, Sherlock”, Lestrade told him.  
   
Sherlock looked around, they were not inside the hotel room anymore but on the hallway, just outside. How long had he blacked out for? He couldn’t quite remember. In all honesty, he couldn’t remember much before he blacked out.  
   
He felt dizzy and weak but his eyes were starting to gain focus and he could take in John’s worried expression and the way his hand trembled. He was on the phone.  
   
“Yes, hello, I need an ambulance immediately-”  
   
Sherlock narrowed his eyes and stood up in a rush, feeling more dizzy and having to lean against the wall to stop himself from falling down. John walked towards him to hold him. “Sherlock!”  
   
Sherlock shook his head. “I’m not- I’m not going to the hospital, John.”  
   
John sighed. “You’re NOT okay!”, he said, annoyed.  
   
Sherlock closed his eyes. “It’s just exhaustion. I haven’t had a proper night of sleep in four days and haven’t eaten since Friday.”  
   
 John turned red with anger. “It’s MONDAY! You haven’t eaten in three fucking days?”  
   
Sherlock nodded slowly. “That’s why. I just need food and sleep and I’ll be fine.”  
   
John looked at him in disbelief. “Fuck! Do you want to kill yourself or what, Sherlock?”  
   
“If that’s what I wanted, I would find more effective ways of doing it.”  
   
John clenched his jaw but didn’t say anything.  
   
Lestrade looked uncertain of what to do.  
   
Sherlock simply stared at John, silently begging him not to take him to the hospital, because he would drive himself mad if he had to go there again.  
   
John sighed. “Fine, _fine._ Lestrade, I’m going to take him home and make sure he gets a proper rest and a proper meal.”  
   
Sherlock smiled weakly at him, feeling relief spreading all over his body.  
   
“Are you sure?”  
   
“Yes. I’m sure. I’m a doctor. I can take care of him.”  
   
*********  
   
They called a cab and left by the back door of the hotel to avoid the paparazzies. Sherlock could walk but leaning on John, and the problem wasn’t just that he was feeling weak but that his back was killing him. And so was his head. He probably had had a concussion.  
   
Which was confirmed by the sleepiness he felt on the cab. He leaned his head against the window and tried best as he could not to close his eyes. Then he realized that John hadn’t said a word since they had gotten in.  
   
“John?”, he turned to say, his voice sounding sloppy.  
   
John didn’t reply. He just stared into the distance.  
   
“John?”  
   
John’s hand clenched and unclenched.  
   
“I’m sorry.”  
   
John finally turned to look at him. “Oh, you’re sorry? Now you’re sorry! Fucking hell, Sherlock! How can you be so reckless with yourself? How can you attempt against your own life in that way? Do you really not care? It’s the same if you fucking live or if you die?”  
   
“I- I wasn’t attempting against my own life.”  
   
“You stopped eating and sleeping.”  
   
“I always do that. It slows me down.”  
   
“Well, look at how fucking GREAT it worked this time!”, John yelled.  
   
“John, it wasn’t because of the lack of sleep or food. It was- the aftermath of the-”  
   
John grew silent. “The panic attack.”  
   
Sherlock nodded. He remembered bits of the panic attack, but after having entered to the crime scene he remembered nothing.  
   
John remained silent.  
   
Sherlock shifted in his seat slightly and winced. He felt the breath leaving his lungs.  
   
John moved closer to him, worriedly. “What happened?”  
   
Sherlock flinched. “My back. Hurts.”  
   
“You hit the foot of the bed with your back and your head when you collapsed. I-”, John rubbed his eyes, clearly tired and preoccupied. “I’ll check it out as soon as we get home.”  
   
“I’m sorry”, Sherlock said after a moment. “This wasn’t how I expected it to be. I wanted to solve the case and see that smile that draws in your face when you see the solution. I wanted to see that small spark in your eyes when you faced danger. I wanted you to be happy once again.”  
   
He closed his eyes against the window. Perhaps he had said too much. It didn’t matter. His head hurt. So did his back.  
   
John sighed.  
   
“Don’t fall asleep!”, John said after a while, grabbing Sherlock by the chin and turning his face towards him.  
   
Sherlock slowly moved his fingers from where they were resting, in the seat, towards the hand John was using to lean his weight on. He intertwined them. “Okay”, he whispered.  
   
John looked down at their hands and closed his eyes. “Sherlock.”  
   
Sherlock looked down at their hands, he slowly brushed his thumb against John’s knuckles, feeling John’s familiar skin on his fingertips.  
   
“Stop it”, John said, seriously, as he dragged a deep breath. He seemed in conflict with himself.  
   
Sherlock did. But he didn’t move his hand away from John’s.  
   
Neither did John.  
   
*********  
   
Sherlock had to lean his weight on John once again when they got out of the cab. John opened the door with his key _he’s still carrying his key_ and they walked in.  
   
His back was killing him. Sherlock felt that with every step each and every single one of his muscles protested, and so walking upstairs was far too difficult. John helped him as much as he could, allowing Sherlock to fully lean against him. Sherlock grimaced and hissed without even intending to. It was difficult, controlling his brain at the moment, when it all seemed blurry and he was dizzy and it all hurt.  
   
“It’s okay, we’re almost there”, John whispered on his ear.  
   
Sherlock dragged a deep breath and nodded.  
   
When they finally reached upstairs, John guided Sherlock to one of the chairs at the kitchen table. “Stay here, I’ll get you some paracetamol”, John said.  
   
Sherlock grabbed him by the arm and John stopped, turning to look at him, their eyes met. Sherlock swallowed, all his thoughts suddenly vanished at the sight of John taking care of him in Baker Street. He cleared his throat. “John, thank you.”  
   
John nodded. “Panic attacks are not an easy thing to handle”, he replied seriously before walking away.  
   
Sherlock stood there, thinking, had John experienced panic attacks? Before the fall, Sherlock had seen John struggling with nightmares and flashbacks produced by PTSD, but not a panic attack on itself. Had John experience any after the fall? Had those been the ones that drove him to the edge? The ones that forced him to choose it was better not remembering Sherlock at all than having Sherlock’s memories haunting him? He closed his eyes with a sigh. It would never stop hurting, he would never stop regretting leaving John alone.  
   
“There you go”, John said, handing him two pills and a glass of water. “Take them, I’ll make you something to eat and you’ll go to sleep.”  
   
Sherlock nodded and shifted in the chair but as soon as he did another ripple of pain hit him in the back. He involuntarily groaned. John looked at him alarmed but then remembered, “right, the back. I need to check on the place it hit the foot of the bed”, he cleared his throat and looked around, awkwardly. “Erm- ”, he hesitated, “take off your shirt, please.”  
   
Sherlock did it automatically, John had turned to give him some privacy while he did, as if he had never seen his naked chest, as if he had never kissed it, as if he hadn’t- _stop that thought._  
  
Sherlock threw his shirt to the floor and John turned at the sound, he walked to the back of the chair. Sherlock was starting to feel sleepy and dizzy and all he wanted was to get it done with and get some sleep.  
   
John gasped.  
   
Sherlock’s eyes opened widely, his brain reacting immediately to John’s intake of breath. _No no no no no no no no no._ _What is wrong with you how could you be so stupid how could you forget that you utter idiot._  
  
“Sh-Sherlock. Wh-what happened to your back?”, he whispered in horror as he saw the scars.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: brief descriptions of violence, torture and suicidal thoughts.

_Cold, hard, gloomy ground. It was cold, why was it so cold? Right, his torso was bare. He must have lost consciousness at some point, because he couldn’t remember much. For how long had he been trapped in here? It didn’t matter anymore, nothing mattered anymore._  
  
_Well, John mattered._  
  
_But John would be okay, he would never ever know that Sherlock was alive, he would believe the lie for the rest of his life, he would probably expect for that miracle he asked in front of his grave until he would lose hope and then he would stop believing in Sherlock Holmes and that would be it. John would live a long life, probably get married and have kids. A better life than whatever Sherlock could give him. But Sherlock wouldn’t be okay, because a selfish part of him wanted to see him again, and would have told him all the things he did while he was away and how much he missed him and- no probably not that. But now he would never get the chance, he would die in here, as if all the things he did for John meant nothing, as if he was doomed to oblivion. He had silently promised John that he’d see him again while John made the speech at the cemetery._  
  
_He just didn’t expect that the next time he’d see him would be in his mind. He didn’t expect that time to be the last._  
  
_So many things that he’d wanted to say, never did and now would never get the chance to say._  
  
_He closed his eyes and shivered. Time was relative and he knew he didn’t have long._  
   
Warm, it was warm, warmer. Sherlock opened his eyes to see out of the corner of his eye a black and white wallpaper that he could relate with nothing but home. It was dark and he was sitting, not standing. He wasn’t chained, he wasn’t tied to the chair, he was just…sitting. His torso was bare, but it felt…different somehow.  
   
“Sherlock?”, John whispered.  
   
A warm hand placed on his shoulder. A warmth that was capable of breaking all of the coldness from that terrible basement he’d been kept in. He knew back then that he was really back at home.  
   
“Sherlock”, John repeated. “Sherlock, talk to me.”  
   
Sherlock cleared his throat. His voice felt raw and his throat hurt, as if he had been using it for a very, very long time. “Y-Yes.” Was all he managed to say.  
   
John stood behind him. Sherlock heard the sigh of relief. “You- you had a- a flashback.”  
   
“A what?”, Sherlock asked feeling confused.  
   
“You started speaking in another language out of nowhere, and screaming and I couldn’t get you out of it. It didn’t last long, but it lasted long enough”, John replied shakily. He clearly was still disturbed by it.  
   
John produced a glass of water out of somewhere and gave it to Sherlock, he took it all in one gulp.  
   
They remained silent for a while.  
   
Sherlock gathered all the courage he could.  
   
He knew he wouldn’t get another chance.  
   
His lower lip trembled when he started, “Be-before you erased me from your memory I had been gone for a year and a half.”  
   
John didn’t say anything.  
   
“I needed a cover so I could leave and destroy Moriarty’s network. And so I did. I left and I spent those eighteen months chasing down his allies. India, Germany, Budapest, Argentina… Serbia”, his voice trembled. He cleared his throat.  
   
“There”, he dragged a deep breath, “something went wrong. Very, very wrong. I had it all planned, I had worked it all out, it had to work… but then it didn’t”, he felt a surge of rage taking over himself. He sighed, “And they caught me.”  
   
John kept his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, reminding him that he was there, but not making any move to stand in front of him. He knew that this was easier if Sherlock couldn’t see his face. Brilliant John.  
   
“I was taken to a basement for-”, he gulped, “for interrogation. Was kept there for- I don’t know for how long, I just knew I wasn’t going to make it out of there alive. I was chained up from my arms, and -”  
   
He closed his eyes and bent his head down, feeling the terrible urge to cry. He didn’t. He swallowed.  
   
“I”, his voice failed him. “I” , he tried once again, “I was hit repeatedly, whipped, kicked on my stomach, b- burned constantly with the butts of the cigarettes. Over and over. It never stopped. They didn’t stop. They enjoyed it.”  
   
John’s hold tightened.  
   
“They kept talking to me, telling me that- that I’d do the world a favor by dying and I believed it”, he replied with a soft laugh that meant anything but fun.  
   
Sherlock heard John’s intake of breath. It was shaky.  
   
“They never forced me to confess. Never made me say anything, probably didn’t even know who I was. They just did it because it was fun. It was their hobby. Waking me up with a bucket of ice cold water and hitting me repeatedly over the day without a chance to get food. My favorite moment of the day was late at night, because then I got to drink a glass of water.”  
   
“And at some moment, I gave up”, Sherlock kept saying. “It wasn’t worth it. Any of it. What was the point anymore? I just-”  
   
“Don’t”, John whispered.  
   
“That was going to be my last stop before London”, Sherlock said in a tone as low as John’s. “I had worked so hard and I had done so well up until then and I was so close to home and then I was simply close to death.”  
   
John’s hold weakened, it faltered.  
   
“I failed”, Sherlock whispered. As soon as he said it he felt the first tear making his way out of his eye and Sherlock was too exhausted so he just let it fall and saw it drop on his hand, which was clenching and unclenching. His other hand was closed so tight on his fist that he felt the nails digging up to his skin and leaving bruises. He didn’t care. “I failed”, he said again and his voice came with a sob. “I didn’t make it because they were right.”  
   
John walked and stopped right in front of him. He bent down. Sherlock’s eyes closed and he kept his head down. “No”, he heard John say in a very soft tone, “no Sherlock, you didn’t.”  
   
“There was a moment when I felt all the strength leaving my body, all the energy giving up, and I just let it happen, but then it didn’t. It never came. And I still wonder why it didn’t. Before- just before that, I saw you”, he said, refusing to meet John’s eyes. “And I said I was sorry I wasn’t going to make it, I’d never see you again.”  
   
John exhaled. He reached out and took Sherlock’s trembling hand.  
   
“Mycroft arrived at some point. I had used one of my last scrapes of brain function to deduce the torturer’s wife was cheating on him and he left, and I was ‘saved’”, he said with a hint of sarcasm.  
   
“I still wonder from time to time if it would have been better to never have come back at all”, he couldn’t help himself from saying. He felt a desperate need to let it all out, all of it, he didn’t care if John left, if John was disgusted by what he would say or if he would end up hating him for the rest of life. It didn’t matter. He needed to say it because it was tearing him apart, because it was haunting his brain and scratching his soul. He needed to say it because he needed to be heard.  
   
“Dying as a failure was never an option, but after that coming back wasn’t one either. Coming back as a broken, idiotic man? A man who didn’t trust his senses nor his brain anymore? The only thing that pushed me to come back was, well, it was you.”  
   
John remained silent. Sherlock kept his eyes closed.  
   
“If I wouldn’t have come back”, he whispered, “I wouldn’t have done all of this damage. You wouldn’t remember me and would have lived a happy life, without anything that would trigger any old memory. I wouldn’t have hurt you. Had I known, John, had I known, I would have never returned. You would eventually find someone else, have a wife and kids, build your own home, and you’d be happier. Better than this. Better than anything I could offer you.”  
   
“Shut up!”, John said, sounding angry and barely controlling his breathing. His voice was trembling. “Don’t you dare-”  
   
“You know it’s true”, Sherlock said, allowing the tears to fall on his face freely. “You know all of this was one huge mistake. Another one of my failures, another one of my miscalculations, because lately I don’t know anything else. I should have never walked in on you at that café, never attempted any form of contact. I’m sorry, for being so selfish, for not thinking about you, about what I was doing to you. I’m sorry, John.”  
   
“Sherlock, stop.”  
   
“John, you need to know that you were always there. Always”, he looked up and finally, finally met John’s eyes. His expression was darkened with pain, his eyes were watering and his breathing was ragged. “I had to save you, make sure you would be okay and then”, he sobbed, “and then you weren’t and you went and got your mind erased. And I failed at that too.”  
   
“STOP!”, John finally snapped. He turned his back towards Sherlock and stood up. Sherlock looked up and saw John’s shoulders trembling.  
   
He couldn’t bring himself to. He had to say it all. He had kept far too much from John and he was exhausted of secrets, he was exhausted of that invisible barrier that had drawn between them. He knew this wouldn’t fade it away, he knew his chances to go back to what they used to be were minimal and that nothing would ever be the same, but John needed to know. John had to know. He dragged a deep breath that came out shaky, “Moriarty had targeted you”, he finally admitted.  
   
John turned to look at him immediately. “What?”, he asked.  
   
“Back- back at the rooftop. He said that if I didn’t kill myself you would be killed. Then he killed himself so I wouldn’t have a way to stop him. I had no other choice, no other chance. I had to jump. I needed you to know, to keep you safe.”  
   
John stood still, his mouth hanging open.  
   
“I had to get myself as far away from you until I could make sure you’d be safe, John. I never meant to hurt you. I never thought you’d do what- what you did. I didn’t see it coming. I should have. I know I should have but-”  
   
Sherlock laughed humorlessly, “but now it’s too late. And there’s nothing left. Nothing but scars.”  
   
John turned his back against Sherlock and walked towards the window. He leaned his forehead against the glass as if it was the only thing that was capable of holding him.  
   
Sherlock simply stared at him, feeling the tears slowly crawling down his cheek. He allowed them. He had held back too much, there were far too many demons arresting him, capturing him, claiming everything he was and everything he would ever be, standing in his and John’s way. There was a heavy, heavy silence, interrupted only by the sound of their breathing.  
   
Sherlock’s upper back ached. He knew it was psychosomatic, he knew that it was an effect of the flashback, feeling as if the injuries had just been done to him, as if all of this had never happened at all and he was still in Serbia. As if he had never come back to London only to find a John that wouldn’t recognize him at all, a John that had supposedly moved on until Sherlock came back to wreck the life John had claimed back, as if they had never kissed and touched. As if it all had been an illusion from his mind palace.  
   
He wondered briefly which pain had been worse. The pain of the whip ripping his own skin apart or the pain of John’s unknowing eyes.  
   
He would have chosen Serbia.  
   
A thousand times, he would have chosen Serbia.  
   
“I’m sorry”, he heard a whisper from the other side of the living room.  
   
His mouth opened.  
   
“I’m sorry”, John said again.  
   
“You have no reason to be”, Sherlock whispered. “You didn’t know. I kept you in the dark, like I always did.”  
   
“I don’t know what made me do it. But I should never had”, John admitted.  
   
“You only did what you thought was better. It was the right choice. Mines were not.”  
   
“Stop blaming yourself, Sherlock”, John said, shaking his head. Sherlock looked at him, but couldn’t quite understand the expression on his face. John looked hurt and angry and sad and something else Sherlock couldn’t quite put a name to. Was it sympathy? Disdain? He couldn’t tell, he simply couldn’t. “You- you did what you could. It got out of your hands, all of it. Including me.”  
   
“I ruined it all, John. All of it.”  
   
John didn’t reply.  
   
Sherlock sighed, closed his eyes and felt a huge weight lifting off his shoulders. “So that’s the story behind the scars.” _That’s the story of how you ended up doing what you did. That’s the story of how I broke you. That’s the story of how I left you alone. That’s the story of all the things I did wrong._  
  
He had done so many things wrong. So many things. He had taken John for granted, had assumed he’d always be there for him, but John had made his choice and Sherlock couldn’t blame him, because had it been the other way around, he was certain he would have ended up killing himself. To think of a life without John in his life, without the hope to have John back in his life at least, was impossible. He never thought he’d be so valuable to John that John would choose to forget him rather than accept he was gone. Did John love him as much as he loved him? Before all of it? Did that mean that when John was doing that speech at his grave, he was feeling the absence not only of a dear friend, as Sherlock thought it had been, but also of a person John _loved?_ It seemed impossible, but it seemed like the only possible answer.  
   
John knew the consequences of that procedure, he wouldn’t have done it unless he had been completely certain and determined to forget him. He wouldn’t have done it unless that what he felt about Sherlock was much more than just the idea of a ‘dear friend’. Was Sherlock’s absence from John’s life as unbearable as John’s absence was from Sherlock’s life? but worse? Because John didn’t know, didn’t have the certainty he’d be back. To John, that had been it. He hadn’t been enough to save him and he had pushed him to jump and there was no chance to turn it back. To John, Sherlock had died, he certainly had, and he had pushed him to do it when he called him a machine.  
   
Oh God. Sherlock felt John’s pain as if it was his own. He felt that thought as if it was crushing his heart, tearing him apart. He felt he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think. He felt the strength leaving his body by putting himself in John’s place before he decided to get his mind erased, he could feel the desperation in John’s voice when he listened to the tape, but he never really understood the weight of it all.  
   
He heard a long, distant, ripping sob, coming from somewhere. He slowly looked up and found John’s eyes fixed on him from the other side of the living room, looking at him worriedly. The sob had been his own, he realized.  
   
He touched his own face and felt his cheeks wet from his tears. He wasn’t supposed to break like that, he was supposed to be strong, both for John and him, but it was too much, it was all too much.  
   
“Sherlock?”, John whispered.  
   
Sherlock felt the tears running freely, he closed his eyes as he listened to John’s voice. He bent his head down, he didn’t want John to see him like that, he’d seen enough vulnerability from him as he saw his scars, it would only make it worse to cry in such a desperate way in front of him.  
   
He preferred it when John thought of him as a hero.  
   
It was better than thinking of him as a broken man, haunted by his own mind.  
   
He covered his mouth with his hand.  
   
He blocked his ears from any sound. He didn’t want to hear John’s voice. He wanted John to leave as soon as possible, He wanted to be alone. He wanted to cry and scream and just let it all go, but without John there. Why was he still there?  
   
A hand cupped the back of his neck and slowly caressed it. He gasped.  
   
The hand kept caressing his nape, coming up to touch Sherlock’s hair, and stood there.  
   
Then slowly, slowly, he felt another hand around his elbow, coming up and sliding over his arm, stopping over his shoulder. Skin on skin. John’s hand was warm and soft and firm and strong.  
   
And Sherlock loved him.  
   
He allowed himself to be pulled towards John’s chest and cried against it, regretting all he had thought before. John was all he needed. If someone could heal him, that was John. And he would like to believe that if someone could heal John, that would be him. He had done it before, when he cured his psychosomatic limp. It seemed like it had been ages ago.  
   
He felt a kiss placed on the top of his head. Just the softest of touches.  
   
He dragged a deep breath that came out all choked. “I’m sorry”, he whispered, as he grabbed John’s shirt and pulled it into fists. “I’m sorry, John.”  
   
“I know”, John replied, placing his cheek on top of Sherlock’s head. “I know you are, Sherlock?”  
   
“Do you believe me?”, was all Sherlock was capable of saying. What if John didn’t? What if he thought all of this had been just another game to get him to forgive him? No. He would never have done such thing, he would  prefer losing John rather than tricking him again. Not again. Never again. No more lies.  
   
John stood silent for a moment. “I do”, he replied with a whisper.  
   
*******  
   
Sherlock let it all out until he felt empty, devoid of pain. Well, that was a lie, but there was a slight relief in his heart, in his mind, in his soul.  
   
John held him through it all. All of it.  
   
Sherlock was reluctant to let go, but he knew that he had to, at some point. He moved his forehead slightly and John understood immediately, for he loosened his hold. Sherlock looked up and John smiled softly at him, placing one of his hands on his cheek.  
   
They were so close that Sherlock only needed to raise his head an inch or two and their lips would meet.  
   
He didn’t. Neither did John.  
   
They simply stared at each other. And that stare said more than any kiss could ever do.  
   
_I love you,_ Sherlock wanted to say.  
   
He didn’t.  
   
He looked away.  
   
John blinked, dragged a deep breath and picked Sherlock’s shirt, which had been lying on the ground ever since John saw the scars.  
   
He slowly placed it over Sherlock’s shoulders, as if he was covering all of his secrets, letting him know that he could trust him, no matter what.  
   
He rubbed his shoulders and his forearms.  
   
Sherlock had never felt more at peace with himself. And it was all because of John. All of it.  
   
“Thank you”, Sherlock whispered, overwhelmed by John’s tenderness and love and care.  
   
John dragged a deep breath. “Does it still hurt?”, he asked softly.  
   
Sherlock nodded, not knowing what John quite meant, was it the place on his back that hit the foot of the bed? Were the scars? Was his heart? It didn’t matter, it all hurt, but it didn’t hurt as much as it used to.  
   
John caressed his shoulder again. “You need to rest, and stand still.”  
   
Sherlock nodded once again.  
   
“I’ll make you some tea and then you’ll get some proper sleep, okay?”, he whispered into his ear.  
   
“Yes.”  
   
He didn’t remember anything else, he just remembered falling asleep on his bed and staring into John’s soft, blue eyes.  
   
He woke up to find the chair John had dragged to his bedroom to keep an eye on him empty.  
   
He looked up and around. “John?”, he asked, feeling confused. “John?”, he almost screamed.  
   
John came into the room, looking slightly worried. “Sherlock, are you okay?”  
   
Sherlock sighed in relief. “Yes”, no he wasn’t. His head was hurting but he wanted to stop seeing that worried expression in John’s eyes.  
   
It worked. “Good.”  
   
“I thought you had left.”  
   
John cleared his throat and looked down. “Not yet, but I’m almost on my way. I have a shift at the clinic.”  
   
Sherlock tried to not let his disappointment show. He wasn’t quite certain if it worked.  
   
“I- I left you a sandwich at the table, please eat it. You need to recover all the energy you’ve lost.”  
   
“Yes”, Sherlock said, decidedly. He would do anything to make John happy.  
   
“Well, I’ve got to go”, he said, but he looked a bit hesitant about it.  
   
Sherlock rolled his eyes with a small smile on his face, “I’ll be fine, John.”  
   
“Are you sure?”  
   
“Completely certain.”  
   
“Perhaps-”, he stopped himself and bit his lip.  
   
“I would love it if you came back later”, Sherlock said, deducing what John hadn’t had enough courage to say.  
   
John smiled, “alright. I’ll come back later, and see how you are and if you’ve eaten, so you better do.”  
   
Sherlock’s smile widened. “I will.”  
   
“Good.”  
   
John leaned closer and before Sherlock could even process it, placed a kiss on Sherlock’s forehead. It lasted less than a second, but Sherlock felt as if time had stopped completely altogether.  
   
He was gone before Sherlock could say anything else. He then listened to the door closing and sighed. He wished John would stay, always, forever, for the rest of their lives.  
   
Reluctantly, he stood up, feeling a sharp ache on his lower back, but he ignored it. He went to fetch the sandwich and found a note attached to it.  
   
_Don’t forget to eat something later. And get some sleep. We’ll work on the case later._  
_Take care. Please._  
_-John._  
  
Sherlock smiled softly at the note.  
   
_I love you,_ he thought.  
   
And then his eyes widened. _The case._ He had completely forgotten about the case!  
   
He sighed, his head started hurting again. He shakily sat on John’s chair.  
   
And then he remembered.  
   
Isabella had the scar. Isabella had been to Lacuna. Isabella was dead.  
   
That was the last thing he’d seen before he fainted.  
   
_No no no no no no no_  
  
He dialed Lestrade’s number. He picked up immediately.  
   
“Sherlock! I was about to phone you!”  
   
“About Isabella, yes”, Sherlock said, trying not to sound as desperate as he felt.  
   
“No, erm”, Lestrade sounded weird, “about Jones’ case.”  
   
“Yes?”, Sherlock asked. If Jones had escaped, then Sherlock would be certain he was Isabella’s killer. He hoped those were the news Lestrade would give him.  
   
“The blood tests arrived.”  
   
“And?”, Sherlock felt his own hand trembling.  
   
“It matched Alice’s.”  
   
Sherlock sighed with relief, but he could feel the concern in Lestrade’s voice.  
   
“But?”, Sherlock said.  
   
“It _only_ matched Alice’s. No one else’s. We confiscated and inspected every knife we found in his apartment and found none in his office. Sherlock, he didn’t kill all those people.”  
   
_And he didn’t kill Isabella,_ Sherlock thought.  
   
_And John is still in danger._  
  
He felt the air leaving his lungs.


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm so so sorry for taking so long to update this little one :( uni has been a bit of hell. Thank you so much for your support, hope you enjoy the chapter x

Sherlock needed John close. Now more than ever. It wasn’t just a simple caprice (well, it partly was, because he very much enjoyed John’s company), it was a matter of life or death.  
   
He debated going to the ER and kidnapping John and locking him in 221B or something but he knew that wasn’t the right way to keep John safe, and he would be forced to explain John what was happening and mention that his life was in danger and he wanted to avoid that as much as possible. He knew John Watson and he knew that if John Watson knew his life was in danger he would go after the person who was putting his life in danger. And that was certainly a bit not good.  
   
So no, John would be safe as long as he was at his working place.  
   
What else could he do? _Come on, think. This is your most important case. John’s life is in danger. Think._  
  
 _Alright? -SH._  
  
He sent a message, trying to sound as casual as he could. He didn’t manage to.  
   
The response was almost immediately.  
   
 _Yes. Working at the hospital as I told you. Why? Are you okay?_  
   
 _Fine. Just…miss you. -SH._  
  
 _I’ve only been gone for half an hour. See you soon._  
  
Sherlock released a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. Now that he had made sure that John was okay and in relative safety at the hospital, he’d be able to focus on solving this case, because it was proving itself to be almost impossible. Was it because it involved John? That was stupid, John wasn’t even directly involved, but he could become a potential target and that was enough to set Sherlock’s nerves.  
   
He took a quick shower, (reluctantly) ate his sandwich, and walked out. Only one destination in mind: Lacuna.  
   
*******  
   
It was honestly getting tiresome to come back to that dim, boring and endlessly white place, which held nothing but people with broken hearts, whose faces showed only pain and tears. _Four months ago one of those people was John,_ Sherlock reminded himself. He sighed.  
   
Melissa looked up as she saw Sherlock approaching. She had just hung up the phone and was wearing a smile on her face, which vanished as soon as he faced him. Sherlock softly smiled at her as a salute.  
   
“Mr Holmes!, please don’t tell me you-”, she started.  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes and interrupted her. “No. I’d never erase John. You have nothing to worry about. I’m fine. We both are.”  
   
Melissa sighed with relief and smiled back. “Thank God!”  
   
Sherlock’s face grew serious. “Melissa. This is important. I need you to explain me how the process of erasing people’s minds is done, I need you to tell me about all the people who are involved with it, about the way the patient’s information is treated, who gets to look at it, anything you know about it.”  
   
Melissa frowned. “Why? Is it because of Alice?”  
   
“Michael Jones was captured. But another person who had the scar was murdered. He is not the killer.”  
   
Melissa gasped. “Isabella.”  
   
“Yes.”  
   
“I- I’m sorry Mr. Holmes, I was convinced it would be him! I told you so! The way Alice talked about him, he didn’t seem like a nice person-”  
   
Sherlock interrupted her, “it doesn’t matter. I need the information now, Melissa. Please.”  
   
“It would certainly be helpful to us”, a voice said behind them.  
   
Sherlock made a noise of despair. “What the hell are you doing here?”, he said as he turned to look at Lestrade, who despite his worry, managed to pull a smug expression on his face.  
   
“I’m not an idiot, Sherlock, contrary to what you believe. I knew you’d come back here on your own. I won’t allow it.”  
   
Sherlock rolled his eyes again and turned to look at Melissa, who was now on her feet, ready to spring into action. “What can I do to help, Mr. Holmes?”  
   
“Show me where you keep your patient’s records.”  
   
Melissa nodded, took out her set of keys and led them towards the archive room. As soon as she opened the door, Sherlock’s jaw dropped opened. Shelves covered the room from the floor to the top, and they were completely filled with patient’s folders, each marked by a big letter that indicated that the ‘A’s  from 1999 to 2000 were there and so were the ‘B’s from 2005 to 2006 and so.  
   
Sherlock looked around with a frown. He didn’t expect Lacuna to be _that_ popular. Melissa had just sent them a stack of files and-  
   
“We’ve been functioning for 23 years, Mr. Holmes. We do have lots of clients”, she replied as if she had read his mind, “you can imagine how crowded this gets on Valentine’s Day.”  
   
“Then why did you send me so many little files?”  
   
“Oh, I only chose the ones from the last three years. All the victims were within that group, so I imagined that Michael had been lazy and just chosen to kill the ones in that group. Perhaps because it was more probable that they’d be at the same working place or were living at the same address than the ones who had checked in twenty years ago.”  
   
It made a lot of sense, Sherlock had to admit. He nodded.  
   
“And this was where Michael worked?”, Lestrade asked, looking around.  
   
Melissa nodded. “He had access to all of it. All the files, all the information, the tapes, everything. It was only logical we’d think he’d be the first suspect.”  
   
Sherlock stood still, thinking. The spaces for the folders from the last three years were empty, they were in his possession. Well, in Scotland Yard’s possession, which meant that they were safe, and yet the killer had killed again. Had probably memorized the information or something of the sorts.  
   
 _Oh._ Sherlock thought -and apparently exclaimed in awe at his own deduction-, Melissa and Lestrade turned to look at him with a confused expression, “OH!!!!”, he clasped his hands together once again.  
   
“What, Sherlock?”, Lestrade asked expectantly.  
   
“The killer changed its MO! Look at that! They always killed their victims at their working place or at their homes, at some place where they’d be relaxed or comfortable. But Isabella-”  
   
“-was killed at an hotel room”, Lestrade replied.  
   
“-a very impersonal place”, Sherlock said excitedly. “Why choosing this place of all, then? Why killing her? Why killing her _there?_ ”  
   
“-perhaps the killer didn’t know that she had the scar. Perhaps the murder is not related to Lacuna”, Melissa replied.  
   
Sherlock scoffed. “There’s no such things as coincidences. The universe is rarely so lazy. Melissa, please, I thought you were smarter than that”.  
   
Melissa shut her mouth and looked down, a slight blush in her cheeks.  
   
Lestrade rubbed his eyes tiredly.  
   
Sherlock turned to look at Melissa again. “Do you remember when she came to the clinic?”, she nodded. “Excellent!”, Sherlock exclaimed. “Tell me exactly when it was, under which circumstances, who treated her, and all that.”  
   
Melissa knitted her eyebrows together, trying to remember but after a while she simply sighed. “I’ve been here for three years, I- I can’t remember! It must have been like two years ago. Hawthorne treated her. Michael wasn’t working here yet, but he could have looked at the file at any moment.”  
   
“I need to take a look at the file!”, Sherlock exclaimed, desperately.  
   
At that moment, his phone beeped.  
   
He took it out, there was a new text from John.  
   
 _Cancelled the shifts for today. Had to make sure you’d be okay. Where are you?_  
  
Shit.  
   
He looked around, looking for an excuse. John had written on the note that they’d work on the case later, _together._ And the first thing Sherlock did after reading it was leaving on his own and working on the case by himself. John would get angry. Really, really angry.  
   
All the thoughts of the files vanished from his mind. Seeing John was all that mattered now, making sure that John was okay was all that mattered. He considered his options, going back to 221B wouldn’t work, since the clinic was closer than Lacuna so John would arrive first.  
   
He finally came up with an idea. He typed his reply.  
   
 _Wait for me there. Lunch? -SH._  
  
The reply came almost immediately.  
   
 _Really? Yes. Lunch._  
  
He smiled pleasantly, thoughts of John flooding his mind. He finally looked up and found Melissa and Lestrade staring at him in wonder. He cleared his throat. “I’ve got to go. Erm- do something first. Won’t take long. Lestrade, see you at the Yard?”  
   
Lestrade frowned at Sherlock’s sudden change of attitude but nodded, albeit warily.  
   
Melissa frowned too but opened her mouth to speak. “I know this will seem odd, but can I come with you?”, she said, turning to look at Lestrade. “I’d just like to help you with the records. Please?”  
   
Lestrade turned to look at Sherlock, who waved a hand dismissively. He honestly couldn’t care less. He trusted Melissa. Lestrade nodded.  
   
“Great!”, Melissa said, excitedly. “I- well, my shift is over in two hours so could I pass by there just after I’m done?”  
   
Lestrade threw her a fake, weak smile and nodded. “Alright”.  
   
Two hours was just perfect for Sherlock. He’d have lunch with John, make sure he was safe at Baker Street and look for an excuse to leave for the Yard without John knowing he was working on the case. He had two hours to think it through.  
   
He typed another reply.  
   
 _I will be there in twenty minutes. -SH._  
  
 _**********_  
   
John was standing at the hospital’s door, hiding just slightly from the glass windows, avoiding to be recognized, and glancing at his clock when Sherlock arrived.  
   
As soon as he walked towards him, John looked up at him and smiled in relief. “Where had you been?”, he whispered, looking a bit annoyed but it got mixed with his smile and Sherlock couldn’t quite tell if he was angry or happy.  
   
Sherlock shrugged, “Baker Street”.  
   
“We could have met there, you know?”  
   
“I wanted to get some lunch”, Sherlock lied.  
   
“I’m supposed to be gone on a family emergency! They couldn’t know I was still here!”  
   
“Oh, but it was a family emergency. I’m very sick!”, Sherlock coughed (a fake cough) with a smile on his face.  
   
John laughed, leaning his head against the wall and closing his eyes. Sherlock stared at him in wonder, and smiled even wider at the sight.  
   
When John finally turned to look at him again, he simply stared. “How are you feeling?”, he asked after a while.  
   
Sherlock kept the smile on his face. “Good”, he replied quietly.  
   
“Good”, John replied, licking his bottom lip.  
   
Sherlock cleared his throat. “Thank you. For yesterday. I know I’ve said it before but-”  
   
John raised a hand to silence him. “Don’t. It was the least I could do”.  
   
They stared at each other for a long, silent while. God, it felt like it had been ages since they had last done that, that thing where the rest of the world ceased to exist and all there was left to the humankind was John Watson’s dark blue eyes fixed on Sherlock’s gray/blue/green ones. And that was enough to save humankind, somehow.  
   
It seemed as if the street didn’t exist anymore. As if the noises were just thoughts inside their heads. It was as if John and Sherlock were the only thing that existed, the only thing that was real.  
   
Sherlock blinked and tore his gaze away. He cleared his throat. “Erm- well, the least I could do was inviting you for lunch as a way of thanking you. So-”  
   
John cleared his throat and looked around, the smile vanishing from his face. “Yeah that’s- that’s good. Lead the way.”  
   
So Sherlock did.  
   
They ended up having lunch at an expensive restaurant. As per John’s request it was expensive but not really a posh restaurant, and the plates were delicious. They ate as they talked happily, feeling extremely comfortable with one another.  
   
Sherlock asked him to pass him the salt and when John did their fingers brushed. They didn’t comment on it, but the warmth of John’s fingers slowly dragging away from Sherlock’s were enough to send shivers down his spine.  
   
Sherlock ate all of his plate and John smiled widely at him before they left. After that they simply walked down the streets of London, chatting about nothing, about the most stupid and mundane things, that somehow were interesting when John was the one saying them.  
   
“Did you know that Alan Turing lived here?”, Sherlock asked as soon as they walked around Little Venice.  
   
John turned to look at him with a surprised expression, “really?”  
   
Sherlock nodded, with a small smile on his face.  
   
“Woah”, John said, as he stopped walking. Sherlock stopped a few steps ahead and turned to look at John with a confused expression, John was staring at the canal and smiling. “Can you imagine him there, being a genius and changing the world without the world even knowing?”, he asked quietly as Sherlock made his way towards him.  
   
“Surprisingly enough, I can”, Sherlock said just as quietly, feeling the brush of their arms. They stood in silence, staring at the water, looking at the patterns it made as a small boat passed over it.  
   
John turned to look at him with a fond smile, “reminds me of another genius I know-”  
   
Sherlock scoffed. “Please, John. I know you idolize me, but thinking that I’d be at the same level as Alan Turing, that’d be wishful thinking, or stupidity.”  
   
John frowned. “Who said I was talking about you?”  
   
Sherlock stared at him with a quizzical expression. “Then who?”  
   
John burst into laughter. Sherlock rolled his eyes but couldn’t help smiling too. Seeing John at such an ease, after all they’d been through. He didn’t want to think wishfully, or be stupid, but it gave him a slight, tiny ray of hope that perhaps, perhaps-  
   
His phone beeped.  
   
 _Melissa is here._  
  
He read it.  
   
John stopped laughing. “Who is it from?”  
   
“Lestrade”, Sherlock replied without thinking, and then silently scolded himself for being such an idiot.  
   
John raised his eyebrows. “Really? What does he want? Is it about Isabella?”  
Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to lie to John, not when John was talking to him so amiably and was at such ease, they had just laughed like the old times! He simply couldn’t lie to him, it would destroy all of it. “Yes. He needs me there.”  
   
“Alright. We’re going then?”  
   
“No. You’re not coming.”  
   
John stopped and looked at him with a frown. “Then you’re not going.”  
   
Sherlock sighed. John crossed his arms, as if waiting for an explanation. “I just- I need your help. I need you to talk to Isabella’s relatives. We know she had some in London but she decided not to stay with them and get a hotel instead, why did she? I need you to find that out. Go to Baker Street and look for more information about them, contact them if you can.”  
   
John bit his bottom lip and looked at Sherlock for a while before nodding slowly. “-Fine.”  
   
Sherlock released a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Alright, so I’ll see you later, at Baker Street.”  
   
“Hm”, John said, noncommittally, and turned to walk away. Sherlock looked to the ground. John was really not pleased at all with Sherlock’s request.  
   
Well, what could he do?  
   
He walked towards the street and hailed a cab. While he was sitting on the chair, he heard fast paces approaching, a hand stopped him from closing the door.  
   
It was John.  
   
He sat on the chair while Sherlock stared at him, bewildered. “To Scotland Yard, please.”  
   
Then he turned to look at Sherlock. “Thought you’d get rid of me that easily huh?”, he said quirking an eyebrow.  
   
Sherlock simply stared at him, unable to mutter a word.  
   
*******  
   
By the time they arrived to Scotland Yard, Sherlock had already sent two texts asking Lestrade to keep John distracted while he looked at the files with Melissa, so it was no surprise that the detective inspector was waiting for them when they got out of the cab.  
   
Lestrade did so. He told John he needed his help on a new case where they couldn’t find out how the person had been killed and almost dragged him inside against his will, while John kept saying “Wait, but-”.  
   
As soon as they were out of sight, Sherlock walked into Lestrade’s office, where he found Melissa looking at the patient’s records, she had already placed Isabella’s apart, and Sherlock took a look at it.  
   
Isabella’s contact info was there. It stated where she worked (by then, at the National Theatre), where she lived (outside of London, in a little town nearby), what her associations were (contact sister in case of emergency) and who she had decided to erase (former husband, had been together for seven years, had split up two weeks before she went there, he cheated on her). There was nothing odd about it, then why killing her in a hotel?  
   
Perhaps Sherlock was getting it all wrong, perhaps it had been another motive, perhaps Michael _was_ the one who had killed all those people, but if they didn’t have the knife they didn’t have any real proof against him, except for the fact he had access to the patient’s records, but that was hardly incriminating.  
   
The more time it passed, the more unlikely it seemed that Michael was the one behind the murders.  
   
“Oh! Mr Holmes!”, Melissa said, standing up excitedly. She grabbed the tape and put in on the player. _The same player with which John had found out his mind had been erased._  
  
Yes, that one.  
   
“I remembered-”, Melissa continued before pressing play, “that Isabella told us that she used to stay at that hotel, and so it held one of her biggest mementos of her life with her husband.”  
   
They had to listen to the tape for a while, until they reached that part. She said _Continental Hotel,_ right there. Perhaps she had been driven there by that odd magnetism of a memory that was looking for a way out, just as John had been driven to him, perhaps that was why she had arrived there, and why the killer was waiting for her. Why? Something must have triggered her memory. “Whoever did it, they listened to the tape”, Sherlock said quietly.  
   
Melissa frowned. “But how?”  
   
“I don’t know. I don’t like not knowing. You never noticed any files missing from the archive?”  
   
Melissa shrugged, “we can’t tell. There are so many folders that we can’t possibly keep track of all of them.”  
   
“Anyone acting suspiciously? Anyone asking questions about her? Any employee interested on her? You’ve got to remember.”  
   
She bit her lip and stood silent for a while. Finally she shook her head, “I’m sorry, I can’t remember. It was too long ago, Mr. Holmes, I wish I could.”  
   
Sherlock sighed. This little game was getting annoying. “It’s fine. You can go, Melissa.”  
   
Melissa looked slightly disappointed but stood up, nodding.  
   
“Thank you”, Sherlock said as she opened the door, “-for your help.”  
   
She smiled softly and walked out. Meanwhile, Sherlock stayed at Lestrade’s office, looking for a particular folder he’d rather keep hidden.  
   
 _Lacuna Inc._  
 _Patient’s record._  
 _Patient: John H. Watson._  
  
Sherlock looked at it and felt that crushing sadness taking over him. He ignored it.  
   
“Melissa!”, he listened a voice greeting her. John’s voice.  
   
Sherlock hid the folder inside his Belstaff and walked away. Whoever it was couldn’t have access to John’s file. Sherlock would make sure of it. He’d keep that file locked in the depths of hell if he had to, if it meant keeping John safe.  
   
He also grabbed Isabella’s, taking the tape off the player. Just in case.  
   
John was just outside Lestrade’s office, talking to Melissa.  
   
Sherlock glanced around, looking for Lestrade, he’d rather him not knowing about the missing file. Actually, he’d really rather no one knowing about the missing file.  
   
He cleared his throat. “John, let’s go.”  
   
John turned to look at him. “Where?”  
   
“Home. We have lots of things to think about”, _Home? We? Damn it._  
  
John’s lips twitched in a small smile. “Alright, then. It was great seeing you, Melissa.”  
   
Melissa nodded with a smile. “You too, Doctor Watson. Take care.”  
   
“So to you.”  
   
Sherlock started walking ahead and managed to sneak out without finding Lestrade on the way.    
   
John followed him and sat next to him when they took the cab. He looked at him with a frown. “So- what happened?”, he asked.  
   
Sherlock was looking out the window, “nothing useful whatsoever. It’s odd, the fact she was attacked on a hotel room but there’s no record of her being with anyone else there. I just can’t see the pattern, it’s too nebulous.”  
   
“Melissa told me she knew her, didn’t she say anything important?”  
   
Sherlock shook his head. He kept looking out of the window.  
   
John didn’t ask anything else.  
   
********  
   
As soon as they arrived home, _home,_ Sherlock sat on the couch, feeling tired. John yawned. “Is it okay if I ask for some takeaway?”, John asked.  
   
Sherlock nodded.  
   
“Want anything?”  
   
Sherlock shook his head, closing his eyes. He needed to think, also he needed John to be distracted so he could hide the file without him noticing.  
   
“Hello? Yes, I’d like two plates of Thai rice please”, John said as he talked on the phone.  
   
As soon as he hung up, Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I told you I wasn’t hungry, you shouldn’t have asked for two.”  
   
“I knew if I asked for one you’d end up taking from mine”, John said, sitting next to him and looking at him with a soft smile.  
   
Sherlock turned to look at him and couldn’t help but smile back. John’s smile turned into a grin as he stared deeply into Sherlock’s eyes.  
   
 _I love you,_ Sherlock thought.  
   
The takeaway arrived some minutes later and Sherlock used the time while John went to receive it to hide the folder and Isabella’s too, better not let John know anything about it. He would tell him later, he knew he had to, he had promised himself not to keep John in the dark anymore and he was going to do it, but he couldn’t do it now.  
   
When John climbed back up Sherlock was already sitting in the same place he had been. They sat together and ate amicably, in silence.  
   
John kept glancing at him and looking at the food again, as if there was something he was terribly anxious to know but couldn’t bring himself to ask. Sherlock was starting to feel uncomfortable under John’s eyes.  
   
Finally, when they were halfway through their meal, Sherlock turned to look at him. “What? What is it?”, he asked.  
   
John looked away and shook his head, closing his eyes.  
   
Sherlock moved slightly closer so their shoulders were brushing, and quietly said, “John, tell me.”  
   
He stared for a while as John bit his lip and dragged a deep breath and his hand twitched just a little and what could possibly be coming? Did he know he was in danger? Did he know Sherlock was hiding it from him? Did he get tired of Sherlock? Did he want to go? Did he want to stop helping and couldn’t bring himself to say it? What was it?  
   
John turned to look at him. He cleared his throat. “Tell me about the first time we met.”  
   
Oh, that.    


	34. Chapter 34

_It was a cold yet sunny Friday afternoon. I never notice those things but I happen to remember everything about that day, how could I not? I had talked to Mike earlier that morning. The flat at Montague Street was too small, I wanted a better place, a place that wouldn’t stench of drugs and loneliness, a place whose walls weren’t tainted with despair, with the need for something else, always something else._  
  
_It was a gloomy, dark place, much like I imagined yours was before we met. It was small. Mycroft told me he’d get me a better place, but I didn’t want him poking his nose around my own business and I told him off. I could live by myself. I would manage, somehow, even if it meant that I’d keep living there for the rest of my life._  
  
_I didn’t want that, though._  
  
_That was why I decided to get a roommate._  
  
_As if that would happen._  
  
_I already knew that it wasn’t going to be easy, I wasn’t a likable person. I hardly was a person back then. Who would want me for a flatmate? Me, the man who paces up and down while he thinks, the one who gets desperate when he needs a cigarette -or something stronger-, the one who stays up until late at night, doesn’t sleep for days in a row, plays the violin when he’s thinking, shoots the wall and is just generally an obnoxious, prodding arsehole? Who would want me for a flatmate?_  
  
_There are 7.1 billion of people in the world._  
  
_And I found the only person who would._  
  
_Mike looked at me with a sympathetic smile. He knew I was right. He could bear with me, but only because he barely saw me a couple of times a week, whenever he was around the lab. He knew that overexposure to me would drive anyone insane. It was just a side effect of being who I was. I’d gotten used to that a long time ago.  I’d known it ever since I was at school and people called me a freak or a weirdo. I was different, I was unbearable, I would drive anyone insane. It was a universal truth._  
  
_Applicable to everyone, but not applicable to you._  
  
_Brilliant, wonderful, perfect you._  
  
_He left for lunch. I wouldn’t grab lunch with him, I was busy, I was in the middle of a case and eating slowed me down. I wonder what would have happened had I met you back then, would Mike introduce me to you? Or would he be too embarrassed of me and would rather pretend he didn’t see you? I don’t know, I never will. I’m simply thankful that he called your name in the park (I know it was a park, I read the post in your blog) that day._  
  
_He didn’t know it back then, but calling your name saved my life. Saved my life so many times and in so many ways._  
  
_You didn’t know it back then, but him calling your name wrecked your life. Wrecked your life so many times and in so many ways._  
  
_I stood there, looking at the samples, playing with the chemicals, trying to figure out the mystery, as if my life wasn’t about to change, as if the world as I knew it wouldn’t turn itself around in a matter of seconds, as if everything would be the same._  
  
_Tap, tap, tap. Three steps. Two human, perfect steps, aided by the cane. I can still hear the tapping on the floor. I can still listen to you. Perfect, imperfect. Healed, battered. Broken. You._  
  
_You walked into the room. I didn’t turn. I already knew you were coming. I didn’t know who you were. I didn’t know what you were going to do to me. For all I knew, you were just another human being who would get tired of me. Of course, you would be my new flatmate, but for two days at most._  
  
_“Bit different from my days”, you said._  
  
_I liked your voice. I never told you that. There was something incredibly military about it. Incredibly well put, as if you were trying to hold all the pieces back together. I could listen to the small smile behind it. I deduced you weren’t happy with your current life. I deduced but I never told you. I didn’t want to scare you away. I never did. From the very first moment I wanted to keep you. I don’t know why, but I wanted to._  
  
_I finally turned to look at you._  
  
_You were ordinary. Surprisingly ordinary._  
  
_I fixed my eyes on the samples I had on the desk._  
  
_But no, you were not. You were just on plain sight, but the minute I set my eyes on you and the deductions started flooding my brain I realized you were far more complex than that. Much more. So, so much more, I’d come to realize later._  
  
_You were lonely. You missed the army. You felt like life had lost all purpose, hadn’t you? It hadn’t John, thinking about it terrifies me. What if we never met? What could have been of your life? What could have been of mine? I don’t want to know. We met. And that’s all that matters._  
  
_I felt the need to talk. I had solved the mystery of the case already. The brother and the green ladder. It was so simple, I could have solved it hours ago. But I didn’t. Perhaps unconsciously I was waiting for you, perhaps I always had, I was waiting for you to come and save me, and that you did._  
  
_“Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine”, I said without turning to look at you. Why doing it so? Mike replied something, I don’t quite remember what, perhaps something about not having it with him, I don’t know, I just remember you. I don’t know why, I felt like it was just the two of us in that room that day. It was always just the two of us, from the moment you walked into the lab and walked into my life. Just like that._  
  
_“Here, use mine”, you said._  
  
_“Oh, thanks”, I said reaching out to grab the phone. You didn’t look at me. What were you thinking of? Were you regretting all of it already? Were you eagerly waiting to know me better? I don’t think so._  
  
_“Afghanistan or Iraq?”, I asked while I fixed my eyes on the phone. You looked surprised, serious but surprised. I liked that look on your face. I never told you that much, but it’s true._  
  
_Then Molly came in and you asked something to Mike and then I told you that potential flatmates should know the worst about each other -but I didn’t tell you the worst about me because I didn’t want to scare you away- and then I left._  
  
_“Is that it?”, you asked behind me. I stopped before closing the door._  
  
_“Is that what?”, I said sharply._  
  
_“We just met and we’re already looking for a flat together?”_  
  
_“Problem?”_  
  
_You smiled. But you already looked annoyed. I must have broken a new record. “We don’t know a thing about each other, I don’t know where we’re meeting, I don’t even know your name.”_  
  
_“The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street.”_  
  
_And so, it all began with a wink._  
  
John looked at him. Sherlock had opened his mouth and somehow his brain had taken over it, he didn’t know what he was saying, he didn’t know if he was saying all of what he thought or just what John should know, he didn’t know because the mental picture was too big, was clouding his mind palace.  
   
He didn’t notice when John had shifted closer in the couch, just slightly. Or perhaps he had, but his brain hadn’t processed it.  
   
“I always pictured it different”, was all John said. He didn’t look angry, not at all, actually he was smiling, not the angry smile he had mastered, but a melancholic smile, a smile that longed to remember and was doomed to regret.  
   
Sherlock remained silent, he had already said too much anyway.  
   
“I didn’t know you’d- you’d remember it so clearly.”  
   
“Of course. Of course I would.”  
   
John looked at him and leaned his head against the couch, “and that was it? I went to look for a flat with you and we moved in together? Just like that?”  
   
Sherlock shrugged, smiling softly. “It worked. We both knew it, I think.”  
   
_Your head against the wall, laughing at such an ease, I had never had that effect on anyone, ever. You were so different in so many different ways. I laughed with you.  I had never felt that with anyone, ever. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done”, you had just said._  
  
_“What are we doing there?”, you asked._  
  
_“Just- passing the time, and proving a point.”_  
  
_“What point?”_  
  
_“You.”_  
  
_I had already proven it, I already knew. I knew this was going to work because you weren’t just an ordinary man and neither was I. We longed for danger, we looked for it everywhere, we both needed it. We worked. We always had. We were meant to._  
  
_You smiled and you had forgotten about your limp._  
  
_Hours later you had forgotten about your trembling hand, as you pointed towards the cabbie, shot him and saved my life for the second time in a day._  
  
_You. Only you, John, only you would be capable of doing that._  
  
His mouth was closed. He hadn’t said it. Thank God he hadn’t, he had embarrassed himself enough. He felt the need to say something anyway.  
   
“That next night you shot the murderer and saved my life.”  
   
John raised an eyebrow, “did I?”  
   
“You proved yourself useful from the very beginning.”  
   
John smiled.  
   
Sherlock told him everything about the case, and John listened with interest. He laughed at Sherlock’s sharp remarks and looked worried or even anxious at some points, and even though he never felt he was a good storyteller -John was the romantic one-, he would do it for John. And John liked it, apparently.  
   
“What do you remember about it?”, Sherlock asked him, after he had finished.  
   
John shook his head, “bits of it. I remember it had something to do with pink, an alarming shade of pink, I remember smelling her breath and looking at her hand, but I don’t remember anything else. I used to think Lestrade had been the one who had called me, but I had never understood it, not really. Not until now.”  
   
“You believe me?”, Sherlock asked, hopefully.  
   
“You don’t have such a good imagination, you couldn’t have possibly come out with all of that”, he said with a laugh.  
   
Sherlock laughed too, “that’s- a surprisingly fair point.”  
   
John bit his lip. “Was it good?  
   
Sherlock turned to face him completely, feeling a bit lost, “hmm?”  
   
“-You and me, living together, how was it? Was it good? Did I drive you crazy? Was it too difficult?”  
   
“It was-”  
   
_It was perfect brilliant everything. It was the smell of tea in the mornings as you placed the cup in front of me and smiled at me, it was your expression of deep focus as you read the newspaper every morning, the way you smiled at Mrs Hudson when she came in to say hello, the dark blue of the robe you used to wear while you walked around the flat. It was the domesticity I never thought I wanted, but that I came to crave, to wish during those lonely nights at hotels around the world. It was all the things I took for granted. It was home._  
  
“It was the very best of times, John.”  
   
John looked at him with wonder.  
   
“I would have never given it up willingly.”  
   
John looked down. “Neither would I.”  
   
“I know.”  
   
“Me too.”  
   
Somehow those last sentences had darkened the mood and the air around them felt heavy all of the sudden. Sherlock wouldn’t mention the topic. Talking about the fall was never easy, it would never be.  
   
John cleared his throat and looked away. “What about the blog?”, he asked.  
   
“You deleted it, before-”  
   
“I used to write about- you?”  
   
“Us. Our life together. Our crimes.”  
   
“Was it good?”  
   
Sherlock rolled his eyes, “a fictional and overromanticized retelling of the actual events, with far too many adornments and too little information of the real facts if you ask me, but I’m certain the gigantic number of followers it got would beg to differ.”  
   
John faked being annoyed. “So it was good.”  
   
“Did you just listen to me?”  
   
“I only heard the part about the gigantic number of followers.”  
   
“There you have your evidence: you only hear half of the story and that’s what you tell the rest of the world.”  
   
John cracked in laughter, leaning his head against the couch and looking at such an ease that it brought an almost immediate flashback to that first night in Baker Street, when they laughed and laughed, without knowing all that was waiting for them, all the demons they’d have to face in the way, all the things they’d lose, all the things they’d get back.  
   
_John, I love you,_ he thought as he stared at him and looked at the little creases at the sides of his eyes.  
   
John stopped laughing.  
   
_Oh no._  
  
John was looking at him, a frown growing in his face.  
   
No no no no no. He had said it aloud. He had. He knew he had.  
   
“-what?”, John said, his voice above a whisper.  
   
Sherlock looked away.  
   
“What did you just say?”  
   
He closed his eyes. Why? Why had he done that? How could he have done that? That was the stupidest thing he could ever possibly do, how could he have failed to control his brain in such a spectacular way? He sighed.  
   
John had listened to him. John knew now.  
   
“Sherlock-”  
   
He dragged a deep breath. “I love you, John”, he said, still not looking at him. “I do.”  
   
John stood still, his mouth half open. Sherlock couldn’t bear to look at him, because he knew, he knew nothing good was going to come out of it and he just had made things more uncomfortable between them. There was nothing good in telling John that, and yet he had chosen to do it so. Stupid, stupid.  
   
John bent his head and closed his eyes.  
   
There was a heavy silence hanging around them, crushing them down, building blocks and walls of unspoken things between them.  
   
It was too much, too heavy. Sherlock wanted to run away.  
   
“I’m sorry”, he whispered. “I- I shouldn’t have, I- it was a mistake.”  
   
“How long?”, John asked, his voice just as low.  
   
Sherlock shook his head, still not daring to look into John Watson’s eyes. “Ever since that first night, or at some point after that. I don’t know. I just knew it before I jumped”, he said, his voice breaking at the last word.  
   
John dragged a deep breath. “You should have said it”. He looked up, “you should have.”  
   
“You didn’t feel the same. I knew it.”  
   
“I went and got you erased from my mind. I can tell it was a feeling as strong as that one if it pushed me to do it so.”  
   
“No.”  
   
“Yes.”  
   
“You should have said it”, Sherlock replied.  
   
“I’ll never know why I didn’t.”  
   
“We should have. But we didn’t.”  
   
“No, we didn’t.”  
   
Sherlock felt a pressure in his chest that he could only relate with some kind of heartache, but that went beyond his real, beating heart, instead it spread all through his body, reaching into every single corner of him, crushing him, blinding him, releasing him, capturing him. He wondered for a second if he was actually going to die, and then he thought that _we should have but we didn’t_ were the perfect words to say goodbye, but then, when nothing happened, he realized he had just felt the absorbing, substantial, overwhelming pain of loss. Pain of regret. Pain of forgetting. Pain of remembrance. Pain of being forgotten. Pain of guilt.  
   
Pain. In every single way.  
   
Pain for John Watson.  
   
Pain for himself.  
   
“Sherlock”, John whispered, so close that he could feel John’s breath on his cheek.  
   
He opened his eyes.  
   
_There are creases on your forehead, small tinges of gray are appearing down your hairline, your skin looks pale, you’re growing old and so am I. We’ve wasted so much time, John, so much time._  
  
“Sherlock?”  
   
“Yes?”  
   
“I forgive you.”  
   
Sherlock felt a kind of levity he could only associate with the feeling of having actually died. He wondered for a second if that was possible, and of course it was, but perhaps not in this situation. If it was true, then it would be gruesome that his last word would have been a broken and helpless ‘yes?’. Then he realized that he hadn’t. It was the kind of levity that came when something that he had carried over his shoulders for ages, weighing him down, debilitating him and torturing him was taken off him. He had been released.  
   
He felt a pair of arms crossing around his back. The same back that had taken the incessant whipping that seemed to extend itself infinitely as it reached through every single muscle in his body, was now hosting the warmth of John’s arms. He couldn’t do anything. After years of carrying that weight, he didn’t know how to move his arms anymore, how to breathe, how to live in a world where John Watson had actually forgiven him.  
   
Had he? Really?  
   
“I forgive you”, John whispered into his neck.  
   
Sherlock felt the soft touch of John’s lips against his neck as he muttered the words. It was enough to wake him up, to order his arms to actually _do_ something while he still had the chance, and so he did.  
   
The same back that had held a rigid and military posture as it stood in front of a cold, empty grave was now hosting the need of Sherlock’s arms. Sherlock held John with all his will. Or John held him. He couldn’t tell.  
   
“I forgive you, I forgive you”, John repeated over and over.  
   
Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed deeply.  
   
_“Dinner?”, I asked._  
  
_“Starving”, you said._  
  
_And if it begun anywhere, it begun here._  
  
“You do?”, he asked, sounding desperate, needing an urgent confirmation.  
   
John released him just a little, he clasped Sherlock’s neck and looked at him. “I do”, he replied.  
   
Sherlock smiled softly.  
   
He felt the sweet touch of John’s fingertips over his cheeks. He realized a second later that John was wiping the tears away. His tears. His own tears. When had he cried? He had cried enough in front of John, he had to stop doing that.  
   
John was looking at him fixedly.  
   
He had stopped crying at some point, he couldn’t tell when. Time was moving too fast and too slow. It was difficult discerning one from the other.  
   
“I love you, John”, Sherlock repeated.  
   
“I know”, John replied, and his arms tightened on Sherlock, “I know you do.”


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hides in a corner* Hello! I'm so, so sorry for taking so long to update this little one. Life has been...busy lately, to say the least. I want to thank you for your patience, and for your lovely comments, kudos and bookmarks. You've made my life brighter with all your wonderful responses and I hope you enjoy what's about to come.
> 
> This chapter is a bit complex and tricky. I hope I made everything clear, yet if you have any questions, just hit me up in the comments! 
> 
> I hope to update the next chapter very soon, I know you'll want to know what will happen! Lots of love to you, and thank you so much for everything :3

Sherlock woke up to find himself alone. He felt his right side strangely warm, and when the mist of that state between sleeping and awake faded away, he looked at the couch and saw the little dip of the leather fabric and remembered: John had slept there, next to him, nestled against him the whole night.  
   
They had fallen asleep at some point. After Sherlock had poured his whole heart out to John, he felt completely exhausted and collapsed against the couch, closing his eyes and wondering if he had just committed the worst mistake he could have ever done, when a few minutes later John sat right next to him, looking at him fixedly, not saying anything, neither of them doing it but saying it either way. They didn’t kiss, they didn’t do anything else, but at the moment it wasn’t necessary. Sherlock was happy enough.  
   
“John?”, he asked, hoping with all his might that John hadn’t left. He couldn’t have, wouldn’t have been capable, after the night before, he couldn’t, could he? Perhaps he had regretted it, perhaps…  
   
He heard the rustle of things being moved in the bathroom and sighed in relief. He hadn’t. He hadn’t. _He hadn’t._ Sherlock had told him he loved him and he _stayed._  
  
“You’re up”, John said as he walked off the bathroom. “Good. I didn’t want to wake you up to say goodbye.”  
   
_Goodbye?_ He thought to himself.  
   
“Yeah, goodbye”, John replied.  
   
Oh no. He’d said it aloud again. He really had to stop those stupid impulses of saying whatever he thought.  
   
“Oh”, he was certain he couldn’t hide his face of disappointment, no matter how hard he tried.  
   
John smiled fondly at him and sat on the couch, “I have got to work, remember?”  
   
“Ugh…working…useless”, Sherlock replied.  
   
John’s smile widened. “Plus, I’ve got to go to my flat and change clothes or people will start talking.”  
   
“People do little else, John.”  
   
John laughed. “I know, I know. Still.”  
   
Sherlock looked down, he couldn’t help not to, “alright then”, he said lowly.  
   
He felt John’s fingers touching his chin and lifting his head up, next thing he found were John’s eyes fixed on him, shining with a light Sherlock couldn’t quite put a name to. “Hey, I’ll be back, and we’ll talk, okay? We have all the time in the world.”  
   
_Talk about what?_  
  
Sherlock nodded. John smiled and leaned closer to him. He stood mere inches away from Sherlock’s face and for a flitting moment he thought John might kiss him, but he simply placed a kiss on his eyebrow. Just when he was about to pull away, he sighed and wrapped Sherlock into a crushing hug.  
   
Sherlock gasped in surprise. John held him with the same determination and care he had done last night. “Thank you”, John whispered against Sherlock’s neck, “thank you for last night. I hate having to leave but I’ve got to. I’ll see you later tonight okay? As soon as I’m done I’ll come back here, if that’s fine for you.”  
   
“Of course”, Sherlock whispered back. “Always, John. Always.”  
   
John placed a peck under his jaw before pulling away. He stared at Sherlock for a long time, the smile fixed into place.  
   
Sherlock looked at him with wonder, he couldn’t help not to.  
   
“I’ll see you later”, John said tenderly as he stood up.  
“Yes. Please”, Sherlock said, not even caring about how eager he sounded. “Please.”  
   
John walked out and closed the door behind him.  
   
Sherlock stood there, fixed to the spot, going through all the things John had just said, John had just _done._ An ordinary person would have heard what Sherlock had said the night before and would have walked away. An ordinary person would have called him a ‘freak’, would have looked at him with disdain, would have laughed at his outburst of sentiment. An ordinary person would have left thirteen hours ago and would have walked out of Sherlock’s life forever.  
   
But John Watson wasn’t ordinary, he’d never be.  
   
John Watson was the most extraordinary person in the world.  
   
John Watson had listened to his outburst of sentiment and held him, he smiled at him, he forgave him. John Watson sat right next to him, looked at him with soft eyes and smiled at him. John Watson had stayed the whole night, had kissed him and walked away with the promise of coming back.  
   
Certainly the most extraordinary person in the world.  
   
But he had things to do and he had to get himself off cloud nine.  
   
He had a case to solve. The most important case of all.  
   
*******  
He laid out all the images related to the case once again. He was certain he must have missed something at some point. It was difficult, when John was related to it in any kind there was no way his feelings wouldn’t get in the way and end up blinding his rational side.  
   
He had to shut them off for now. He had to stop them if he wanted to solve this case. He had to be a perfect rationing machine.  
   
He observed the pictures of the victims. All of them had died somewhere they were familiar with, either at their working place or at their house. Except for Isabella, and yet she had been at a place she knew, a place she was comfortable with. Or as comfortable as she could get in a hotel room.  
   
They had all been stabbed. Which was honestly an ineffective way to die. So this killer, whoever it was, had psychopathic tendencies, for they enjoyed the pain, enjoyed the suffering and enjoyed seeing a slower death than if they were killed at gunpoint.  
   
So far that led him nowhere.  
   
Lacuna was his biggest lead. The fact they were all linked with it could simply not be just a coincidence, and it meant that the killed had a motif to kill them. Either for resentment, or seeking vengeance at their decision, or simply as a means to torture them further, there had to be a reason why they were all patients from the same clinic. Of course, the fact that they had all the data concerning the patients was a huge advantage, but this wasn’t a simple killer, they couldn’t just be motivated to kill because they had the address, no, there had to be a reason.  
Most importantly, there had to be a pattern. But there was nothing so far, nothing. A student, a security guard, a teacher, a factory worker and an actress. Four women, one man. One of those bodies -the first one- found at the Thames but killed at their own home, as if it was begging to be found, looking for attention. How did the murderer chose who they’d kill and who they wouldn’t?  
   
He stared at them. Big age difference, not much in common except for the fact they’d gotten out of painfully long relationships and _oh._  
  
_Oh! Stupid stupid stupid._  
  
Eleanor Thorpe.  
Frank Lloyd.  
   
Hellen Hunt.  
Isabella Dorman.  
   
Coincidence? The universe was rarely so lazy.  
   
He typed a text to Lestrade as fast as he could.  
   
_What’s the name of the teacher who was murdered by the Lacuna killer? -SH._  
_Reply immediately, Detective Inspector. -SH._  
_Please. -SH._  
  
Two minutes later, Lestrade replied.  
_Grace Dawson. Why?_  
  
Oh.  
   
A zodiac killer. Only with the alphabet. Boring. Dull and annoyingly predictable and yet he hadn’t realized of it. How could he have not? He had been disappointingly slow and stupid with this case.  
   
_Because Eleanor wasn’t their first victim. -SH._  
  
Of course she wouldn’t be. A killer like this would long for a sense of continuation, of completion. They didn’t randomly chose to start with the letter ‘E’, no, there had to be and a,b,c,d first.  
   
Lestrade had given him this case a couple of days after he’d arrived, to give him something to occupy himself with. He’d given an ordinary case that had ended up hitting extraordinarily close to home. But there might have been others before. Others that went unconnected, unsolved, that were discarded, thrown away and…  
   
_The cold cases!_  
  
He ran towards the folders. The clues had to be there. The interval of time between one murder and the other wasn’t very long, but they were irregular. He’d have to go through all the files in which the crime was perpetrated through stabbing and in which the name would start with an a, b, c or d.  
   
Of course, he’d have to go through them in chronological order, because someone whose name started with a ‘c’ couldn’t have been killed after someone whose name started with a ‘d’. It was easier to narrow them down that way.  
   
He found the first match almost immediately. Daniel Howard, stabbed forcefully three months before Sherlock’s return. He’d been found at his working place, a mental hospital. Case unsolved. Suspected that he’d been killed by one of his patients but it could never be proved.  
   
Most importantly: his name started with a D.  
   
He found two matches with a C, in which he could choose one because they’d been killed at their own house, as was the killer’s MO. Cornelia Rotten, stabbed forcefully, seven months before Sherlock’s return. His main suspect had been his ex-partner but his involvement could never be confirmed. Case unsolved.  
   
There had been a span of four months between one and the other, what had motivated the killer to act with such urgency lately? Surely there must had been some motivation behind those actions. Was it fear at the possibility of getting caught, now that Sherlock was back in London and Scotland Yard would stop classifying every single murder under the sun as ‘unsolved’? Probably.  
   
It took him far much longer to find the ‘b’, but he managed to do so. After rummaging through files over and over he found Beth Hudson, stabbed forcefully on her working place, a bank, ten months before Sherlock’s return. Suspected motive was robbery, but the security footage had been strangely deleted. Case unsolved and archived. No evidence.  
   
He never found the ‘a’, he looked through the files that were older than those ten months but found nothing, no one. There must be someone, _someone._ Oh. Oh. Someone killed a year before his return. A case that hadn’t been solved before. Killed at their own house.  
   
Allice Pollock.  
   
Impossible, but the trace was going back to her.  
   
Which was stupid, because they’d already found the person who’d killed her and even though everything suggested he might be the killer of all these other people they couldn’t prove it. There was no other way to look for evidence. How would they manage to show that Michael Jones was the killer?  
   
Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes, feeling tired. His head was spinning with too many ideas at the same time, and he’d been ignoring the nagging, horrible feeling that reminded him that Isabella was the last person who’d been killed and that Isabella started with an I and that the letter that followed the I was the J.  
   
It would do him no good at all to involve his sentiments there. He had to be a rational machine.  
   
Whoever was responsible for these deaths didn’t act deliberately. These people knew the killer, they allowed them into their house, they trusted them in order to do so. They knew the killer somehow, but how was it possible that Michael Jones could know all these people? Even if he worked for Lacuna, he was just the messenger, he had nothing to do with the patients, unless he’d show up at the doctor’s office in the middle of the procedures and befriended them. But that was highly unlikely.  
   
But if it wasn’t him then who?  
   
And why Lacuna?  
   
And why was Alice the first one?  
   
And if she wasn’t the first one then why couldn’t Sherlock find who the first one had been?  
   
He stared at the pictures again. Forceful stab, but they were different from the ones that had been provided to Alice, according to the autopsy. The angles were different, meaning that whoever killed all those people held the knife in a different way than Michael Jones.  
   
And yet, they’d been based on Alice to use it as a killing pattern, as a registered trademark of their modus operandi. It was as if- _wait a second._  
  
Wait a second.  
   
Wait.  
   
Sherlock read the institutional manual of Lacuna once, when they’d first visited it (while investigating the case, not that one time Sherlock had been there because he wanted to get his mind erased). One of the first rules of the institution was to erase every single memory of their patient’s mind that might reminisce them about the existence of Lacuna or any of their workers.  
   
Or any of their workers.  
   
John had greeted Melissa when they’d met at Scotland Yard. He’d recognized her immediately, recognized her by her _name._ He knew who she was and yet on theory he wasn’t supposed to get in touch with anyone who worked on Lacuna.  
   
They talked as if they were old acquaintances.  
   
Why?  
   
As far as Sherlock knew, John didn’t know Melissa before The Fall. She had been working at Lacuna for the last three years at least, so they couldn’t have met at work. She referred to him as ‘Doctor Watson’ which meant that they didn’t simply met at a pub or a café. All the evidence pointed towards them meeting for the first time at Lacuna and that meant that Melissa had transgressed the rules of the manual and hadn’t erased herself-  
   
_Nor the clinic._  
  
The day John listened to his tape and found out about the truth, he had sent messages to Sherlock in which he found the connection to Lacuna suspicious and he talked about Lacuna as if it was something he was aware of, even though Sherlock had been extremely careful not to mention anything related to it to John, especially when it was related to the case.  
   
John should have never made that connection.  
   
And yet, he did.  
   
Because he knew what Lacuna was and he knew who Melissa was, even though they were supposed to be erased from his mind.  
   
But Melissa-  
   
Melissa was a fan. An old admirer of the blog, a person who had actively helped them and who looked as if she enjoyed doing so.  
   
Although to be fair, it wouldn’t be the first time that a fan of their blog would develop a psychopathic obsession towards them.  
   
But it was never about them. These cases, they had existed long before Sherlock’s return, except-  
   
What if they were Melissa’s version of Moriarty’s bombings? What if all of this had been designed to attract him, to drive him -them- into her trap.  
   
Could that be possible?  
   
Of course it could be possible, but was it _true?_ It was a perfectly logical assumption, but Melissa…he had _trusted_ her, she had helped him. Why doing it then? Why-  
   
His phone chimed. New text message.  
   
From John.  
   
He released a breath he didn’t know he had been holding.  
   
John was safe. John would be okay. They both would. He’d come back tonight and they’d talk. That’s what he said they’d do.  
   
_Took you long enough. If you’ve understood the last pattern you’ll know where to find us. Come and Play._  
  
Sherlock couldn’t breathe.  
   
He had to blink once. Twice. Three times. He read it again. He was imagining all of this. Of course he was. He had to go back to present, to reality, and to read what John had really texted him. John, who was okay and alive. He read it again. It didn’t change. It didn’t change.  
   
Alright then. Think. Think. Not about John. Logically. Look for a possible place.  
   
Whoever it was, was looking for an open confrontation. The killings had taken place either at their home or at work. Perhaps the killer had arrived to John’s old place and- no. That was not what the message said. The message said the _last_ pattern, not the constant one. Right. Isabella. Isabella had been killed in a hotel room, disrupting everything. Isabella had been killed in a place that held emotional value for her -it was her usual room and in which she had lived with her husband for a while before divorcing him- _yet_ it was a fleeting one, one she didn’t visit all the time, a place she had grown attached to, not because of the location but because of the feeling that accompanied it.  
   
John didn’t have any feeling attached to his own flat. That much was true. Perhaps John had some feelings towards the hospital where he worked, but at this hour it would be extremely crowded and busy, and so it would be far much difficult. No.  
   
John had been at lunch break when he was kidnapped and he was taken somewhere. Somewhere with feelings attached. Somewhere related to their own story. Melissa might have gained access to those memories when she erased John’s, considering that Melissa was the killer. Which was just a theory, only a hypothesis that Sherlock honestly didn’t want to prove correct.  
   
Somewhere with feelings attached. But why?  
   
Sherlock closed his eyes and retrieved to his Mind Palace, ignoring his racing heart and his ragged breathing. Melissa had said something when they first met, something about- something about the patients getting headaches when they were bombarded with the memories that had been erased.  
   
That was why. That was why the killer had chosen a place associated with something that had been erased. To torture them.  
   
_John._  
  
No.  
  
Where? Where could she have possibly taken him? An important memory. He was trembling. His hand was shaking. He couldn’t lose control. He couldn’t. Now more than ever he had to keep himself calm, John’s life depended on it. But when John’s life depended on him, it was never easy to maintain control. His vision was blurred. Breathe. He had to breathe. He inhaled but he felt as if the air was filled with stones, sinking him in. John.  
   
John.  
   
A place. A place. Somewhere they associated with feelings.  
   
The pool?  
   
The museum of antiquities?  
   
Dewer’s Hollow?  
   
Bart’s?  
   
Irene’s house? – _certainly not._  
   
A mental image invaded his Mind Palace.  
   
_We’re not a couple._  
  
_Yes, you are._  
  
_Who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes, but for the record, if anyone out there still cares, I’m not actually gay._  
  
_Well, I am. Look at us both._  
  
_You didn’t say no. You didn’t say anything. I got the text and I walked away and you were going to go after me. I knew it. I heard what she told you. I knew it then._  
  
_You did too._  
  
_We never acknowledged it, but we both knew then._  
  
He grabbed his gun and ran out of 221B. He stopped the first cab he found.  
   
“Battersea power station! Immediately!”, he yelled.  
   
He couldn’t have gotten this one wrong.  
   
If he did, John was dead.


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise next chapter will be up soon and things will be better and pretty and cute and adorable. I hope to make it up for all the angst!!! I love you lots <3 (Please don't hate me and enjoy!!!)

  
Sherlock had walked into the Battersea Power Station once after the encounter between John and Irene. It had been during his exile.  
   
There had been a moment when he felt completely lost, craving John’s company in a way that drugs could never fill. He felt in that moment that he would have to go back and show John that he was still alive, or he was going to drive himself mad. That was a stupid idea, of course, since John wasn’t safe until all the people from Moriarty’s network were killed, and he simply couldn’t risk John’s life to fulfil a caprice.  
   
So he decided to go to those places where… where John’s presence was _there._ And he decided to go to Battersea, then he went to the pool and he walked past the window where John saved his life for the very first time.  
   
But there was always something about Battersea. Always.  
   
It was never about Irene. Sherlock couldn’t understand how people could ever assume that. It was about _John_ and about John’s nonsensical reactions towards Irene. It was about showing weakness and sentiment. It was about wanting more, wishing more. Somehow Irene had managed to bring those things and to place them as some kind of barrier between him and John.  
   
But there, in that moment when John didn’t have the faintest clue that Sherlock was there, when Irene openly confronted him about his feelings _he didn’t say no._ He didn’t walk away. He didn’t deny it. He was going to go after Sherlock, he was going to.  
   
And things changed after that moment. They did. And Sherlock allowed himself to hope.  
   
But then the fall happened.  
   
*******  
   
While Sherlock stared at the mess and the ruins of the power station, he realized his left hand was shaking. Honestly, all of his body was shaking.  
   
He hadn’t received any other message from John’s phone, he couldn’t dial to make sure he was fine, it would ruin the element of surprise.  
   
He climbed up the steps, slowly, silently, remembering exactly which was the way. The power station hadn’t changed at all: it was as messy and abandoned as it had been almost three years ago.  
   
There was the echo of the raindrops falling over the rotten ceiling. There was no other sound, it was silent. Way too silent.  
   
He finally stood in front of the blue room. That same room. He was standing in the exact place he had been at while listening to their conversation.  
   
Silently taking a deep breath, he walked into the room, ignoring the tremors.  
   
“John?”, he asked because he couldn’t stop himself.  
   
John gasped.  
   
Sherlock gasped.  
   
John was sitting on a chair, his arms and legs bound to it. His forehead was bleeding, as if he had been hit on the head in order to bring him here. His eyes widened at the sight of Sherlock, and they showed something akin to relief. A kind of relief Sherlock wasn’t feeling.  
   
Melissa was sitting next to the chair, on the floor, her legs crossed and a smile plastered on her face.  
   
Sherlock couldn’t see her, Sherlock could only see John’s face, could only take John in, his posture, his body. His eyes roamed over and over, desperately trying to find something that would indicate that John would be okay, that _they_ would be okay.  
   
“I knew you’d find it out eventually”, Melissa said, breaking the stone-cold silence.  
   
Sherlock didn’t reply.  
   
“Took you long enough, Sherlock. I waited and waited. So many clues I thought I was being far too obvious”, she shrugged, “I guess that’s just what love does to you.”  
   
“Why?”, was all Sherlock said, almost breathlessly.  
   
“Why what? Why am I doing this or why did I take John Watson of all people?”  
   
“…John”, he whispered, somehow feeling unable to say anything else, unable to make his brain compose any other word.  
   
Melissa’s smile widened. “I was bored. Needed some entertainment. John Watson proved to be quite the entertainment, don’t you think?”  
   
“Are- are you okay?”, Sherlock whispered, turning to look at John but not daring to meet his eyes.  
   
John nodded, almost imperceptibly.  
   
Sherlock released a breath he didn’t know he was holding.  
   
Melissa rolled her eyes. “I’ve followed his blog for a while. Something didn’t quite fit into your death. I knew you were alive. I was simply expecting your return.”  
   
“Another fan, I take it?”  
   
“More like a _follower,_ not quite a fan, no. Simply curious about you”, she turned to look at John and turned back to look at Sherlock, “about _you_ ” _,_ she said, meaning _you two._  
  
“But you needed to test me.”  
   
“Yeah and you failed. Seriously Sherlock? Over three months to solve a case of serial murders? Getting slow aren’t we? Definitely slower than John’s blog claims you to be.”  
   
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Do you realize you’re not the first _follower_ I’ve had to deal with?”, he said with a confidence he wasn’t quite feeling at the moment.  
   
“Oh I know far too much about James Moriarty. Quite an idiot if you ask me”, she replied simply.  
   
John couldn’t help but cringe at the mention of Moriarty’s name. Sherlock turned to look at him worriedly.  
   
“I might have forgotten to mention”, Melissa said as Sherlock turned his gaze to John, “anything that might trigger John’s memory will cause him pain”.  
   
“What?”, Sherlock asked, unable to stop himself.  
   
“Do you seriously think I only kill for the sake of it? Please Sherlock, I enjoy playing with their brains, with the memories they tried so hard to forget, I enjoy seeing their eyes, them begging me to stop the pain. It’s more interesting. Funny, isn’t it? The way love hurts and harms.”  
   
“How do you do it?”, Sherlock asked, his eyes wide.  
   
Melissa shrugged. “One of the advantages of understanding how brainwashing works”, she said with a smile.  
   
“You bombard him with the memories”, Sherlock deduced, “just as you warned me I shouldn’t do when we first met.”  
   
Melissa nodded. “I did not choose the Battersea Power Station deliberately, Sherlock. You should have seen the map of his brain, this was one of the places which lit up the most as soon as we triggered the memories”, she looked around, “I don’t know what happened here”, she feigned innocence, “but I assume it has something to do with _Irene Adler,_ doesn’t it?”, she said with a smirk.  
   
As soon as she said the name John screamed in pain. The sound was muffled by the cloth that was wrapped over his mouth, but it was loud enough to make everything inside of Sherlock crumble and break. “STOP IT NOW!”, he yelled, unable to stop himself.  
   
“Am I right?”, she asked.  
   
Sherlock didn’t reply. He simply stared at her with hatred as he tried desperately to ignore the gasps coming from John.  
   
She stood up as she sighed. “You will reply to me.”  
   
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  
   
She pointed a gun at him. “You will reply to me.”  
   
Sherlock raised his other eyebrow. She was definitely an amateur, if she didn’t know that Sherlock could not possibly care less about his own life, no matter how much he tried. His own existence had only ruined everything and everyone around him, and so if she killed him she would do him a favor. He didn’t reply.  
   
She pointed the gun at John. “You will reply to me.”  
   
Perhaps she was not an amateur at all.  
   
She moved the gun closer. _0.33 seconds from that distance. Instant brain damage resulting in an instant death. 0.33 seconds from his death._  
  
“Yes.”  
   
“Tell me more.”  
   
“No.”  
   
“Oh, I insist”, she said, taking the lid off the gun.  
   
He flinched internally, “she had died. I had assumed so because I had seen her body at the morgue. She wasn’t. She summoned John here-”  
   
John grimaced and closed his eyes tightly, his face contorting in pain.  
   
Sherlock stopped himself. He was hurting John. He couldn’t. He couldn’t play her game.  
   
“Go on”, she said.  
   
He cleared his throat. “She talked to him. I was hiding in a corner and watching the encounter. End of the story.”  
   
“What did she tell him?”, she said with amusement.  
   
“Nothing of importance.”  
   
“Really?”  
   
“Yes.”  
   
She hit John on the forehead with the butt of the gun. John screamed in pain. “Really?”, she said once again, seemingly undisturbed by John’s distress.  
   
Sherlock dragged a deep, shaky breath. “She- she- she said- I DON’T KNOW! STOP THIS! STOP HURTING HIM! JUST-”  
   
“Just tell me the story and I’ll stop”, she said calmly.  
   
“Why?”, he whispered helplessly.  
   
She shrugged. “Hm. I’m curious, that’s all.”  
   
Sherlock closed his eyes. “She asked him if he was jealous. He replied that we were not a couple.”  
   
John winced, clearly in pain. Sherlock ignored him and continued.  
   
“She said that we were. John didn’t say no. Then she implied- she-”  
   
John yelled again. Sherlock felt his knees growing weak.  
   
“She implied he was in love with me. He didn’t say no. I was there. I heard it all.”  
   
Melissa looked unimpressed. “I thought it was something far more interesting. Oh well.”  
   
Sherlock’s legs finally gave in and he dropped to the floor, breathing heavily. “What do you want from me?”, he whispered.  
   
She smiled widely. “Not much, Mr. Holmes. Just wanted to test you a bit. John proved to be quite a tool of amusement.”  
   
Sherlock’s hands closed into fists. “This is between you and me, Melissa. Leave him alone. Let him go.”  
   
“Hmm… no.”  
   
“Please.”  
   
“He was the one who chose to check into Lacuna. Honestly I didn’t expect him to do so, he just gave me the perfect chance. How could I possibly let him go?”  
   
“What do I have to do? I’ll do anything.”  
   
John shook his head. Sherlock ignored him.  
   
“Nothing. Sit, watch and enjoy. I want to see the look in your eyes”, she walked towards him, “and then, if you’re too sad, I can erase him from your mind too.”  
   
“I’d never do that.”  
   
“Want me to try?”, she asked menacingly.  
   
Sherlock stood still and silent.  
   
Melissa laughed. “Honestly, I’m impressed. I never expected you to react in such a way because of John Watson. John Watson of all people. Simple and ordinary John Watson.”  
   
He stood silent. He knew himself and he knew perfectly well that if he didn’t ignore her he would probably end up killing her for what she was saying about John.  
   
He just ignored her and closed himself in his mind palace.  
   
He had a gun with him. He could easily use it except for the fact that Melissa had one with her as well and she was incredibly close to John. Which was a risk Sherlock certainly didn’t want to take.  
   
John was in pain. That much was clear. What he needed to know was if the pain his own brain was causing him would prove itself mortal. He couldn’t possibly know that. He had to act fast anyway, do something. Anything.  
   
He should have called Lestrade. He really should have. But he didn’t because that was just who he was. He had thought he’d be able to handle it by himself, and there he was, lying on the floor and desperately trying to save the man he loved.  
   
The man he had put in danger so many times and in so many ways.  
   
The man who probably wouldn’t want to know anything else about him anymore after all of this.  
   
But he would think about it in any other time.  
   
If they got any other time.  
   
Alright, stick to the facts.  
   
Melissa is approximately five feet away from John. The gun she’s using- a mental picture of a lot of guns appeared in his mind palace- seemed to be a Special .38. Quite a popular model for self-defense. Also used by killers who had decided to act on the spur of the moment.  
   
Self-defense. _Self-defense!_  
  
This wasn’t Melissa’s MO. This was not how she killed. She used a knife, but not a gun, never a gun. She used the gun as a tool for personal defense which meant that she wasn’t used to it.  
   
Which gave Sherlock just a couple of seconds of advantage. If he had a little bit of luck.  
   
He’d have to act but he would have to wait until she was far away from John, enough to assure that she probably wouldn’t hit the target when she aimed, based on her (possible) inexperience on handling a handgun.  
   
He stood still, bent on the floor, closing his eyes. John felt far away, too far away.  
   
He was all that mattered. If he was harmed or wounded fatally it wouldn’t matter. John needed to be safe. This was all his fault after all.  
   
No it wasn’t.  
   
No it wasn’t. John was the one who had made that choice.  
   
But it was him who had pushed him to the limits.  
   
Melissa was still talking. Something about why she had murdered all the other people but he didn’t care. He had deduced it hours ago, on his way to Battersea. It was only obvious now that he thought about it.  
   
A person she loved had gotten her erased from their mind. Now she looked for vengeance. Simple as that. She looked for a job in Lacuna, she got it, she became a necessary assistant within the clinic soon enough.  
   
By the time Michael killed Alice, Melissa was dating him. She had manipulated him into killing her and then threatened him to not to say a word about her. It had worked. He didn’t.  
   
Then she enjoyed it. She recruited the patients, learnt everything there was to learn about them, arrived to their homes and tortured them without even touching them, until they asked to be released of their pain. Only then she killed them.  
   
That was exactly what she was going to do with John. And she was going to make Sherlock watch, as if it wasn’t enough with losing him, he would have to witness as she would rip him apart bit by bit.  
   
He would never handle it. He would kill himself before seeing John being tortured by his own mind.  
   
“SHERLOCK!”, a scream got him out of his stupor.  
   
He looked up immediately, following the sound of that desperate voice.  
   
Melissa had released John from the cloth covering his mouth.  
   
Sherlock couldn’t reply. He couldn’t find the words to do so. He couldn’t find his voice.  
   
“Ugh. Do shut up, Doctor Watson”, Melissa said, pulling a disgusted face.  
   
Sherlock was on his feet without even realizing he was.  
   
“How about we play a game?”, she asked.  
   
John looked at Sherlock, confusion drawn in his face.  
   
“Let’s play to see how much does it take you to move, Sherlock.”  
   
Sherlock frowned, certainly confused.  
   
“Shall we start?”  
   
John kept his eyes fixed on Sherlock.  
   
Sherlock didn’t look at him. Didn’t have the courage to do so.  
   
Melissa pulled out a piece of paper and started to read. “I don't know how I'm meant to be writing this. I'm not a writer.”  
   
_Oh no._  
  
_No no no no no._  
  
He’d read that sentence a hundred times before. Knew exactly what came up next.  
  
“Ella thought keeping a blog would help but it hasn't because nothing ever happens to me. But today, something did. Something happened.”  
   
John grimaced at the mention of Ella’s name and since then he had shut his eyes closed, clearly in pain.  
   
“I was walking in the park and I bumped into Mike Stamford. We were sort of mates when we were students. We got coffee and I mentioned that I wanted to move.”  
   
John groaned. Sherlock remained still and silent. He felt all his strength falling  apart, leaving only weakness and a kind of pain he could only relate with a deep empathy with John.  
   
“He said he knew of someone in a similar situation. So we went to Barts and he introduced us”.  
   
John screamed in pain. Sherlock bent on his knees once again. He couldn’t walk towards John, he knew it would only make things worse, but he was completely desperate, as if all of his body was pushing him towards John. It was taking all of his mental capacity to not move at all.  
   
“Except, he didn't. He didn't introduce us. The man knew who I was. Somehow he knew everything about me.”  
   
Sherlock closed his eyes in defeat. It was too painful, listening to her reading the beginning of _their_ story right in the moment when it was ending. It was too much.  
   
“He knew I'd served in Afghanistan and he knew I'd been invalided.” Right at the mention of Afghanistan, John contorted in pain and started screaming once again.  
   
_Don’t listen to him don’t listen to him don’t listen to him._  
  
_Focus on her._  
  
_Ring on her right hand._  
  
_That’s it!_  
  
“You don’t have to do this, you know”, Sherlock whispered.  
   
Melissa put the paper down and looked at him, her face blank. She took a step towards Sherlock. _One step away from John._ “Hm?”  
   
“It’s because of him, isn’t it?”  
   
John had grown quiet at some point.  
   
“Who?”  
   
“He abandoned you days before the wedding. You had been together for three years. You reintroduced yourself to him after he erased you from your mind. You didn’t know he had done so and the pain was so big it caused a permanent brain damage on him. He’s still at the hospital, isn’t he?”  
   
“How?”, Melissa asked, taking a couple of steps towards him.  
   
_Now._  
  
Sherlock ran towards her, took the gun out of his pocket and hit her on the forehead as hard as he could. He would not kill her. He would not play her game.  
   
He didn’t hear the gunshot.  
   
John did.  
   
He felt strangely warm. That was it.  
   
“Sherlock!”, a distant voice called. A lovely voice. A voice he loved with fierce intensity.  
   
He followed that voice.  
   
He didn’t get to reach it, for the fell to the ground. He looked down and saw blood dripping from his chest. He had been shot.  
   
His brain was surprisingly slow right now.  
   
Somehow John had managed to release himself from the chair.  
   
Oh of course, he had been buying time. While he contorted with pain he managed to break himself free from the rope tied around his hands. Brilliant John.  
   
“Sherlock?”, John asked, as he panted. He sounded frightened.  
   
He looked down and saw John’s fingers desperately trying to rip open his shirt. “You okay?”, he whispered.  
   
“Shhhh”, John said softly as he assessed the wound.  
   
Sherlock felt weak, very much so. He estimated he had about three seconds left of consciousness to use it.  
   
“You’re okay”, he felt the need to say, because it was the only thing that mattered.  
   
And then everything went black.  
   
The last thing he felt was John’s lips on his.  
   
Or perhaps he had dreamt that.  
   
He couldn’t really know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear this is the last horrible cliffhanger I'll leave you with!!! Thank you so much for reading <3


	37. Chapter 37

_"You're okay",'he'd whispered._

_"Sherlock, you're dying", a voice he'd known quite well said._

_"Yes, well, it was only bound to happen someday". He was surprised at how calm, how sharp and how even his voice sounded, he had been shot after all, he wasn't supposed to sound this... Collected._

_Oh, right. He was in his Mind Palace._

_Except he wasn't. Or he was, but it was completely different from his usual Mind Palace. It was crumbling apart._

_Falling. Piece by piece. Just as he had done so two years ago._

_He had never stopped falling, not until now. Now it seemed like there was only landing._

_Moriarty had told him that it wasn't the fall what killed him, that it was the landing._

_How very prophetic of him._

_"So what if I do? I'd thought rather constantly that I'd do the world a favor by doing so."_

_"Look what your death did to him."_

_"Look what my return did to him.What would it do to you?"_

_"You know what it would. You've chosen to ignore it. You've chosen to pretend I would feel nothing because it is easier for you to handle. You have three seconds, brother dear. What are you going to do?"_

_"Let go."_

_"What about John?"_

_"He'll do better without me."_

_"Will he?"_

_"No."_

_"Then what shall you do?"_

_"Survive."_

_"How?"_

_"I don't know."_

_A muffled laughter. "Don't be daft, Sherlock, this is not the moment to be so. You have to make up your mind and do it fast."_

_"How do I do it?"_

_A raised eyebrow. "You're asking for my help?"_

_Rolled eyes. "It's all I have left."_

_"Find the only place in this ridiculous palace where you're at peace."_

_"How?"_

_A shrug. "It's your palace, not mine."_

_And just like that, he vanished. What brought him peace? Before...everything... happened it used to be his memories with John but now they brought only anxiety, nostalgia and despair. John brought him peace, but for some strange reason he could never summon him to his palace, could never find him there. Well, there was a reason. He'd locked John deep in his mind palace, terrified to let it go. He had shielded every single memory, every single fact about John Watson. He'd learnt them by memory and he would never ever forget. The problem was that he didn't know where he'd locked John Watson. How to find him? He didn't know._

_A sharp, deep pain in his chest. He blinked back the tears in his eyes as he screamed with his everything. And he screamed and he screamed._

_It seemed to go on forever, and so was the pain._

_He could so easily let go._

_It would be so easy to simply fall and fall and fall._

_"A bit different from my days", a distant voice said._

_He opened his eyes. Where was that voice coming from? He didn't know but his chest wasn't hurting anymore._

_"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever done", the voice said softly, a muffled sound._

_Sherlock looked around desperately, his breathing frantic, eager to follow that voice. Where was it? It was as if that voice was its conductor of light, was guiding him home._

_He stood up, his legs were shaking, he felt himself slowly losing his forces. He was running out of time. He had to find home. He had to find John._

_"So, she's alive then. How are we feeling about that?"_

_Everything around was falling apart. His memories were collapsing one by one. He was dying. One thing was knowing his heart had stopped beating, but to know that his mind stopped working was the truly terrifying bit. He tried to calm himself down. He couldn't find him._

_"Are you gonna see her again?"_

_"No, I know you for real."_

_"Now people will definitely talk!"_

_"No. Don't. SHERLOCK!"_

_The scream resonated through the whole Mind Palace, which shuddered by the desperate sound of that voice._

_"Let me come through please, he's my friend, please."_

_He was running now. His wound could be damned. He had already broken John once, he couldn't do it again._

_"Jesus, no. God no."_

_He kept running. There were tears streaming down his face. He ignored it. There was pain. He ignored it. Every single cell in his body was begging him to stop. He ignored them. There was John's voice rumbling through. He followed it._

_Finally, amidst the debris and the dust, he found those stairs._

_Those stairs._

_A study in pink._

_John's voice was louder. "There's always something pushing me back to you. I don't understand. It's as if I understood you, and at the same time I didn't, and I want to, God I want to", a drunken John had told him months ago, and Sherlock climbed up the stairs, slowly and with a lot of effort. He felt as if he'd never reach the top, as if the more he advanced, more and more stairs would appear. It was endless, but the voice was closer. And closer and closer._

_"You have no idea for how long I've wanted this", John had told him the first time they had sex._

_You have no idea for how long I've loved you, John._

_He finally reached the end of the stairs._

_John turned to look at him with wonder. A John wearing the same costume he'd worn during their first case. He raised an eyebrow. The whole palace shook._

_His mouth twitched and he smiled at Sherlock._

_"Brilliant!", John said._

*******

"John?", Sherlock woke up with a start. He lifted his head as fast as he could, the voice inside his head so strong and so omniscient and so present that it'd felt absolutely real.

He rolled his eyes as he looked around.

"Why is it that every time I wake up in a hospital you are the first thing I see?", Sherlock said weakly, with a groan.

Mycroft looked tired and worn out. Still, it wasn't enough to cut off the ice in his voice as he replied: "perhaps you should stop doing things that will end up with you in hospital, brother dear."

Then the pain registered in his brain. He squeezed his eyes shut as he was hit by the cruel reality: he'd been shot.

Shot.

He tried to breathe deeply, but it only hurt him more. The movement of the chest hurting the wound.

He wondered for how long he'd been unconscious. It seemed like the wound was already starting to recover slowly, so he calculated about two days.

The pain was unspeakable. It was impossible to express it with words, nor he wanted to, lest of all to Mycroft, so he simply groaned.

Mycroft stood up with a sigh and walked towards the morphine drip. "I opposed to it, considering your history, but apparently there's no other option."

As soon as the levels of morphine were elevated, Sherlock felt relief washing over him. He dragged a deep breath and opened his eyes, only to find his brother staring at him closely.

He cleared his throat. "Where's John?"

"In another bedroom". As soon as he said that, Sherlock sat up and started looking around, worry taking over him.

Mycroft placed a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back, forcing him to stop moving. "He is in a good condition. He was asked to stay to have some rest. He was worn out when you were brought to the hospital."

"There was a wound in his forehead. It was bleeding. Around two inches. It needed stitches, I'm certain, he'd lost blood because of that wound-", he kept explaining, but Mycroft pushed him back again, this time more decidedly.

"I'm certain it has been taken care of, little brother. There's nothing to worry about."

"What about Melissa?"

"She was captured."

He didn't say anything else on the subject.

Sherlock was silently thankful for that.

Mycroft looked around and walked away from Sherlock. "I shall inform your...friends about your awakening."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Mycroft", he called before his brother closed the door.

The door opened half an inch. "Yes?"

"Thank you", was all Sherlock said.

The door closed.

*******

He slept for the rest of the day.

He'd wanted to escape to John's room but three things had certainly interceded on his inability to do it: 1. He didn't know wether John wanted to see him or not, and if he didn't he would understand, 2. Mycroft had apparently warned his minions about Sherlock's plan and so they had planted two security guards on his door and 3. He felt too weak to move. The morphine had provided relief, but he was certain that his body was in no shape at all, and had no energy to move, even to such a short distance. So he decided to sleep.

It was far easier with the aid of morphine.

He was going to miss morphine so much once he was forced away from it.

He was woken up at around 8 pm when he heard footsteps approaching and the door opening. He looked up to see Lestrade, who stared at him worryingly without moving.

Sherlock sighed. "For God's sake, just come in Lestrade!", he said exasperatedly.

Lestrade shook his head with a small smile as he closed the door behind him. "Feeling better, I take it?"

Sherlock simply remained silent. He didn't know how to reply.

"We were really worried about you."

"It took your agents far too long to get to the place", Sherlock replied, matter-of-factly.

Lestrade nodded. "We got lost. The instructions weren't quite clear."

"The instructions were clear enough. I assumed I was talking to police investigators. It is not my fault that your team is so incompetent and ignorant."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "If it hadn't been for John-", he stopped himself from talking.

Sherlock flinched involuntarily at the mention of John's name. "What?", he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"He gave you the first aids. Controlled the bleeding enough to save your life. He was all Doctor mode when we came in, yelling instructions at us. But as soon as he was taken into the ambulance he nearly collapsed with exertion. He held your hand the whole way to the hospital."

Sherlock swallowed. It felt as if he was trying to eat a rock. His mouth was dry. "Why are you telling me all of that?", he asked quietly.

"Because I know what you're planning on doing, Sherlock. I know you will want to run away and leave him alone, because you think that'll save him. But it hasn't. It won't. It's not your choice to make."

"I can try and keep him safe."

"Is that what he wants?"

"He doesn't know what he wants, HE DOESN'T KNOW ME!", he snapped angrily.

Lestrade remained calm as he replied, "the first time you brought him along on a case, Jennifer Wilson, remember? It had been just a day since you met, and he knew you better than I did after five years. So yes, he does know you, Sherlock. He only forgot he did, but as soon as you met again, all it took was just one day."

Sherlock shook his head. He was tired, he wanted to sleep. Lestrade was right. He didn't want Lestrade to be right.

"-so please, don't do that to him."

Sherlock remained silent. He didn't know what to say.

"Let him choose whatever he wants. I'll do anything he asks", he finally replied.

Lestrade nodded.

Sherlock blinked back a tear that was threatening to escape from his eye.

"About Melissa. We captured her, she's currently under interrogation. I'll let you know whatever progress is made."

Sherlock shrugged, feeling endlessly thankful to Lestrade for the change of topic. "That won't be necessary, her intentions are quite clear to me now. Keep me informed of what the court decides on her sentence. I'm placing my bet on 70 years."

Lestrade snorted. "I won't even ask."

He stood up and placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. As he spoke, his eyes were full with sincerity. "I'm very glad you're alive. For you, for him, for Scotland Yard, and for London."

Sherlock's eyes softened just a little. Of course he'd never admit it.

"I am known to be indestructible", he replied, not knowing what else to say.

"Well, that's a relief, just this once."

"Thank you, Greg."

Lestrade's eyes widened before he broke into a smile.

"Thanks to you, Sherlock. I don't say it nearly enough."

*******

He must have fallen asleep at some other point. There was not much else to do, to be honest. He wanted to think about what Greg had told him but his mind was foggy and muddled because of the morphine. He could feel the gears inside of his Mind Palace as it slowly rebuilt around the destruction his near death had caused it.

He heard the door opening once again and he sighed, feeling in that limbo existent amidst being asleep and being awake, or as awake as he could possible be with that quantity of morphine on his system.

"Ugh, what is it now, Lestrade?", he complained.

The door closed immediately and was followed by a "shhh!"

His eyes opened at once, and he looked up to see... "John?", he whispered as he saw the dark silhouette standing in front of him.

John walked towards him slowly. Sherlock could only blink, dazed by shock and surprise. He stopped in front of him and examined him carefully. He didn't reach out, he simply stared and stared and stared.

Finally, after what felt like hours, John said softly, "you're alive". It was as if that statement was a reassurance to himself, not to Sherlock.

Sherlock shrugged slightly, as much as he could without feeling the pull of his the bullet hole in his skin. "Apparently yes."

John smiled widely, but it was too dark, so Sherlock could only see the shadow of that precious smile.

Then, without saying any other word, John moved the blankets of the hospital bed and tucked himself next to Sherlock, who simply looked at him with surprise. John leaned his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder. "I thought you'd died on me."

Sherlock swallowed, overcome by emotion. He couldn't reply.

"I couldn't save you, I didn't know how. I mean I knew how but there was blood everywhere and you were losing consciousness and there was nothing in there to help you and- Jesus, Sherlock, I was certain you'd died."

"How are you?", was all he managed to say.

John nodded against his shoulder. "I'm fine."

"She didn't hurt you?", he asked, remembering what she had done to John. He felt anger rushing all over his body.

John shook his head, "not terribly. The hardest thing to control was the headache by the overexposure to memories, but it was only temporary. My head's still a bit sore, though."

"What about the cut?"

"Stitched", John simply replied, looking up to Sherlock to show him the work the doctors had done on his forehead.

Sherlock looked at it and hummed. His eyes were a bit blurry though, and John, as the good doctor he was, noticed it immediately. "What's wrong?", he asked, going from relaxed and calmed to worried and tense in a second.

"Morphine."

John sighed.

"My thoughts are slow and foggy, but it controls the pain."

"Please tell me you'll leave it as soon as the wound has healed."

"John..."

"Promise me", John said seriously as he looked at him.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment and nodded. They fell silent.

He was about to fall asleep, feeling he had used all the energy he had left on his body, when he heard John's voice whisper. "I'm sorry."

Sherlock opened his eyes and frowned, wondering if he had imagined John saying it or if he actually had.

"I'm sorry", he said once again as he buried his face on Sherlock's shoulders. "I never meant for any of this to happen", he said bitterly. "I never wanted to hurt you, Sherlock. Not after seeing the scars."

Sherlock shook his head, making sure that John could feel the movement of his jaw on top of his head. "It wasn't your fault, John. I'd never blame you for this, ever."

"It isn't fair. Any of this. You. Everything you've gone through. Us. It isn't fair", he said as his tone betrayed the rage he was feeling.

"It isn't fair, but it is what it is. I deserved it. After all I put you through."

John looked up and met Sherlock's eyes. "No it isn't. You didn't deserve any of that, Sherlock. Regardless of what you think or what you say, you've saved my life so many times and in so many ways and-" he choked, "God, I almost couldn't save you, you were dying and I couldn't, I couldn't."

"You had already saved me John, more times than I can count. And you did save me this once. I'm here, I'm alive."

"You're alive", John repeated once again.

Sherlock nodded and placed a kiss against the top of John's head. "It's over", he said, and honestly he didn't know if it meant the case or if he meant the two of them. He didn't want to think about it, not yet. His mind was still too muddled, there was too much morphine standing between him and John. But oh God, how much he wished it was the former, how much he wished they could defeat all the demons along the way, how much he wished they could survive to every obstacle together, how much he longed to spend the rest of his life with John by his side.

But he'd hurt him and put him in danger and caused only pain and heartbreak.

Although Greg was right. That was not his choice to make. It was their choice to make. The two of them would figure it out along the way. He stayed true to his word, he would do anything John would ask of him, anything.

John nodded against his shoulder, and moved infinitesimally closer to him, careful not to hurt him nor to touch his wound. "Can I stay here tonight?", he asked softly.

Sherlock kiss the top of his head again. "Always", he replied.

John hummed contently and Sherlock felt the trace of his smile on his shoulder.

 


	38. Chapter 38

Sherlock had been shot. Shot.  
   
John listened to the sound of it and he was immediately brought back to that moment, years ago, when a bullet had graced him on the shoulder. He was used to that sound, but that one shot sounded completely different, perhaps because he had never been so close to an actual shot.  
   
This one shot had sounded just like that one. His first instinct was to look at his shoulder, to assess the wound. There was heat and sand and pain and death.  
   
But it wasn't his.  
   
Sherlock was the one who fell to the floor.  
   
Sherlock. Dying. Shot. No.  
   
He ran towards Sherlock, the pain in his shoulder (psychosomatic, he knew) completely forgotten out of his instinct to heal and to take care of those who had been hurt.  
   
But in this case it was Sherlock. Sherlock.  
   
He dragged a deep breath to control his fear. Too many things were coming together at once: the distant memory of Afghanistan, the forgotten memory of a fall and Sherlock was shot. He had to be on doctor mode now, he couldn't keep on as John Watson.  
   
There was bleeding, certainly. The bullet was still inside his body, blocking most of the blood flow.  
   
"You're okay", Sherlock whispered.  
   
 _Let me focus. I can't. When you talk to me, when you look at me, I can 't concentrate. I need to concentrate now, Sherlock. Your life is flowing through my hands._  
  
"Shhh", was all he managed to say.  
   
He didn't shut up.  
   
"You're okay", he said once again, before his eyes drew closed.  
   
John's logical side within his brain told him that it was an obvious outcome: there was blood loss and the shock was giving way to pain a pain so deep that in Sherlock's case it could only shut itself off in order to prevent it, but his irrational side was screaming at him.  
   
 _You're_  
   
Blood flow not controlled yet.  
   
 _Losing_  
  
Apply pressure on the wound. Enough to try and stop the blood flow but soft enough so the bullet won't damage any other internal organs  
   
 _Him._  
  
John closed his eyes and dragged a deep breath.  
   
No. Not again.  
   
He'd already lost him once and he couldn't remember the weight of his loss, but he could _feel_ it spreading all over his body, anchoring him to the ground, as if a ton of debris had fallen over him. Over them.  
   
Sometimes, memories were associated with smells, with sensations and with sounds rather than with images.  
   
John had erased the images, but the sensations, those were impossible to delete.  
   
 _Cold. Pain on my forehead. Stench of blood. Your blood. Touch. Cold skin. No pulse. Someone somewhere saying your name over and over again, with all the forces there are left. Perhaps it was me, perhaps it wasn't. I can't tell. There are muffled gasps and the smell of blood everywhere, and beneath the mess and the death, there's your scent. The mix of expensive cologne, expensive shampoo, and that smell which is so undeniably yours. Mixed with blood. No pulse._  
  
He opened his eyes. He was breathing fast. For a second he wondered if Sherlock had just jumped off a rooftop when he looked down at his hand and saw its desperate attempt to block the blood flow.  
   
This was not the time to panic. This was not the moment to store in his own brain the smell of death and the sensation of Sherlock dying on his arms.  
   
That wouldn't do. He ripped a piece of his own jeans and used it so it could absorb the blood while he applied pressure to it. He rummaged inside Sherlock's coat for his phone but he found none, his own had been taken away from him.  
   
The odds were not good. The odds were not good at all.  
   
He had approximately twenty minutes before Sherlock died of blood loss. He'd have to find a way out, look for a cab or something and get him to a hospital. But if he did he would be unable to keep pressing on the entrance wound and it would bleed faster. He didn't know what to do.  
   
He looked around desperately. It was an abandoned place. There was blue everywhere, a distant memory triggering his headache but he ignored it. There was sweat falling off his forehead but he didn't care. He passed a hand through it and _oh,_ it was blood. Still, he didn't care.  
   
A sound somewhere, far away. His eyes widened.  
   
A sound somewhere, closer.  
   
John started screaming.  
   
He didn't know what he was saying, his brain wasn't registering any words, he didn't know if Melissa had allies that were looking for them or if it was someone to help them, he screamed and screamed and screamed at the top of his lungs, perhaps it would bring Sherlock back to consciousness.  
   
A sound, next to him. A door opened, a voice broke in.  
   
"JOHN?", it sounded agitated, worried.  
   
 _Greg, it's Greg._ "He was shot!", was all he could say. "He was shot."  
   
"Shit", Greg muttered under his breath as he stopped in front of Sherlock's slumped body.  
   
John blinked and went back to Doctor mode. "There's your killer. She kidnapped me, tortured me and shot him. I'll testify if necessary but BRING A BLOODY AMBULANCE RIGHT NOW!", he screamed the end of the sentence.  
   
Greg stared at him for a moment and nodded as he grabbed his communicator. John was dimly aware of a group of people coming and taking Melissa's unconscious body away. He couldn't really process it, for his brain was too busy thinking about how much pressure should be applied and how much blood had been lost, while assessing the possible damage made to internal organs and calculating the probabilities of Sherlock surviving.  
   
Finally, after an endless, infinite and agonizing number of minutes, or so it seemed in John's brain, the paramedics arrived.  
   
"The bullet hasn't come out yet, it is blocking the blood flow slightly. Still possible damage in liver, stomach and lungs, as well as some broken or sore ribs. We need to stop the bleeding and check the state of the internal organs immediately-"  
   
He was being held up while the paramedics carefully lifted Sherlock's body.  
   
"NO!", he screamed.  
   
"John", Greg said, trying to calm him down.  
   
"My hand is blocking the blood flow. Only I know how to apply enough pressure, if I let go he'll-", he choked, "he'll die", he whispered. "I can't stay away from him, I need to press down on the entrance, I need to make sure the bullet doesn't dig deeper and won't cause worse damage", he kept on talking, unable to stop.  
   
Greg sighed. "Let him", was all he said to the paramedics.  
   
He was walking somewhere and then there was light and a mask of oxygen being placed on Sherlock's face and oh god there was an oxygen mask on Sherlock's face and he was inside an ambulance and he stumbled.  
   
"Oh Jesus", he muttered, his breath leaving his body, as if he'd just been punched in his body. "No".  
   
His knees gave in and he fell to the ground.  
   
"Woah, woah, careful there, mate", Greg whispered as he held him by the shoulders and helped him stand up. "John, you've got to stay strong."  
   
"He was shot", he said as he stared into nothingness, his brain screaming at him that sentence over and over.  
   
"I know. You're just about to get to the ambulance with him. He'll be taken to hospital and he will be alright. You both will."  
   
John looked around desperately. "Where is he? Where- where, I can't let him go, I need to hold onto his chest, stop the bleeding. Where is he?"  
   
"He's right there, John", Lestrade said as he helped him up the ambulance.  
   
John sat next to him. The sirens chimed louder and louder. One of his hands stayed pressed on the wound, the other reached desperately for Sherlock's hand.  
   
He kissed his knuckles. "Shh- shh. It's okay love, you'll be okay", was all he managed to say.  
   
*******  
   
"How are you feeling, John?"  
   
John ignored him. "How is he?".  
   
He didn't want to know. But oh god, he so desperately needed to know. A sigh as Mycroft left his guards down and slumped on the chair in front of him, while he rubbed his face. "Out of surgery. Not out of danger. The bullet was successfully extracted."  
   
John aimed to stand up. "I need to see him."  
   
"We're not allowed to", Mycroft said firmly. "He needs to rest and recover. No visitors allowed in, lest of all patients."  
   
"Who the hell thought it was necessary to hospitalize me, by the way?", John snapped angrily, "I'm a bloody Doctor, for God's sake! I can take good care of myself!"  
   
"You had a nervous breakdown, John. You were tired, battered and hurt. You needed rest as well."  
   
"All I need is to see him and know he will survive."  
   
"I'll keep you updated."  
   
"I don't give a _fuck_ about your updates! I need to see him for myself!"  
   
"I'm afraid that won't be possible."  
   
"Fuck you, Mycroft."  
   
*******  
   
"Is he awake?"  
   
"Not yet, mate. Powerful anesthetic and his body needs all the energy to recover from the wound."  
   
"What if he doesn't wake up?"  
   
"He will."  
   
"What if he doesn't?"  
   
"Will you delete him from your mind again if he doesn't?", Greg asked, sounding slightly bitter about it.  
   
John was taken aback. "I- I... No."  
   
"Sorry, John", he said. "I know it wasn't your fault. We're just under a lot of stress."  
   
John turned his back on him. He didn't say another word. Greg sighed and walked out of the room.  
   
********  
   
"Has he woken up?"  
   
"I'm not in the liberty to say, Doctor Watson."  
   
John threw his plate of fruit to the ground in rage. The china shattered in little, little pieces.  
   
********  
   
Finally, after hours minutes seconds. After infinite periods of stagnation and worry, after debating over and over again what his life without Sherlock Holmes in it would be, Mycroft walked into the room.  
   
"He's woken up. Don't disturb him", was all he said.  
   
John felt his eyes well up with tears of relief.  
   
*********  
   
Sherlock woke up to feel warmth next to his body. He was confused, for a second he didn't know where he was or what he was doing there, all he knew was that he was certainly not in Baker Street, and that it was morning.  
   
And then he felt an acute pain in his upper abdomen, just below his chest.  
   
And he _remembered._  
  
His eyes opened in a rush.  
   
John was staring at him, a soft smile in his face, a smile which turned into a frown of worry as Sherlock grimaced in pain. "You okay?", he asked softly.  
   
Sherlock nodded, his jaw caressing John's hair. "I am now." He gathered enough strength to smile at John widely. John simply looked at him with a deep softness in his eyes.  
   
Then someone cleared his throat.  
   
John turned to look at nurse Stephens looking at them, her arms crossed. "You're not supposed to be here, Doctor Watson", she said firmly but good-naturedly.  
   
John buried himself beneath the covers in embarrassment and looked at her with puppy eyes. "Just give me ten minutes more, _please._ "  
   
She stared at him with a raised eyebrow and John begged him with his eyes. She sighed, "I'll go and make a round, by the time I pass by your room I want to see you there."  
   
John nodded. "Yes, yes, thank you!"  
   
"Don't even mention it", she said as she walked away.  
   
"Remind me to buy her a box of chocolates once we're out of here".  
   
Sherlock hummed. "She prefers jelly babies, but she doesn't like the green ones."  
   
John looked at him fondly. "How?, never mind, you'll tell me later". He caressed Sherlock's cheekbone softly before standing up. "Let me take a look at that wound."  
   
Sherlock sighed, but complied. The wound was covered, but John could tell it was starting to heal, for the skin around it was less red and swollen, and it didn't feel hard to the touch. Sherlock hissed however, as soon as John put his fingertips. John withdrew the hand immediately. "Morphine not strong enough?", he asked worryingly.  
   
Sherlock shook his head, "it has controlled the pain, but it's too sore. It hurts when I move and even when I breathe."  
   
"I know. It will take time to heal", he nodded sympathetically at him.  
   
Sherlock sighed, his face contorting in pain again.  
   
John touched his forearm, just the softest of touches, to bring a bit of comfort through the misty cloud of pain and sedatives, before saying, "I have got to go."  
   
"No."  
   
"Yes. We'll get in trouble if I don't."  
   
"Who cares about trouble?", Sherlock replied seriously.  
   
John smiled. "I really have to, but hopefully I'll be discharged later today and I'll come back to take care of you, okay?"  
   
"M'kay", Sherlock mumbled.  
   
John kissed his forehead and stood there for longer than necessary, his lips silently stating everything he had no chance to say at the moment. Sherlock wished he could grab him and embrace him and never let him go, but moving his arms seemed like too much of an effort, and everything hurt too much to do it. John broke apart just a couple of inches, but close enough so his breath tingled Sherlock's skin when he whispered, "I'll be right back".  
   
"Please."  
   
"I won't go anywhere, Sherlock."  
   
*******  
   
"When am I getting out of here?", Sherlock groaned as Lestrade walked into his room.  
   
Lestrade shrugged. "Don't know mate, it was a really deep wound, might take long to heal."  
   
He rolled his eyes. "thank you for stating the obvious, Lestrade. This is unnecessary, I'll have a perfectly capable doctor at _home_ -", he stopped himself immediately.  
   
Lestrade's eyebrows looked like they were about to reach the sky.  
   
Sherlock cleared his throat. "-Or I could hire someone", he fixed.  
   
"You're assuming lots of things, Sherlock", he replied, looking around the room, as if it was endlessly awkward to have that conversation with Sherlock.  
   
"Am not. Simple balance of probabilities", he tried to sound nonchalant. It didn't work.  
   
"Simple balance of probabilities", Lestrade replied.  
   
Sherlock sighed, "is Scotland Yard paying you for coming here and repeating the words I say?"  
   
Lestrade exhaled loudly, clearly annoyed with Sherlock's attitude. He'd known him for too long, and it was still difficult to handle Sherlock on a tantrum. "I'll see myself out", he whispered as he walked towards the door.  
   
While he opened it, a small, small voice flatly stated, "he's not coming back."  
   
Lestrade frowned, turning to look at Sherlock, who had his eyes fixed on the duvet that covered him. "Who?", he asked, confused, "John? Of course he is, he's filling the forms to leave."  
   
Sherlock didn't look up. "No. Not _this_ John, the John I left before-", he cleared his throat, "before the fall. He won't come back."  
   
Lestrade opened his mouth and closed it, at a loss of what to say to that.  
   
Sherlock continued, "the John who knew me completely and who put up with me and my sociopathic tendencies. The John who shot a man to save me. The one who nearly blew himself up to defeat Moriarty. The John who believed in me. _That_ John is never coming back."  
   
Lestrade swallowed, "I- I... No. He is not."  
   
Sherlock closed his eyes, as if hearing it from someone else made it worse.  
   
"But- but this John could be all that and more, Sherlock. He believes in you. And somewhere, deep inside, he knows you better than anyone else."  
   
Sherlock remained silent.  
   
The air was hot. He was choking. _Jesus._ He felt crowded. He needed space. He needed to breathe. He needed Lestrade to get away immediately because he had shown far too much vulnerability as it was, he simply couldn't keep making a fool of himself because of John.  
   
And, perhaps for the first time in his life, Lestrade _observed._ He didn't say another word, he simply walked away.  
   
Sherlock dragged a deep breath, as if he had just come out of drowning in the water. The air hurt his nostrils and his throat. He had thought about it a thousand times before, but it had never seemed so unavoidable, so irreversible. The truth hit him like a train on full speed, a deafening sound in his ears:  
   
 _The John you knew, the John you met, the John you allowed to reach deep inside yourself, the John who tore you apart, the John you fell in love with without even knowing what love was, that John is gone._  
  
And he allowed himself to grieve.  
   
The memories. All of them were lost.  
   
They had built new memories, of course, but the reminiscences of the pool the woman the hound the fall the banker the study in pink. All of them were gone. He wondered for a moment how it was possible that a single moment could be earth-shattering and life-changing for someone whereas it meant nothing for someone else.  
   
It was a paradox. John was the same man who'd come back from Afghanistan, broken and lonely and desperate, looking for danger, craving it. He was the same doctor, the same soldier who had met Sherlock years ago and changed his life forever.  
   
 _And yet._  
  
It felt as if a part of him had died with his memories of Sherlock as well.  
   
Sherlock closed his eyes, willing the lump in his throat away.  
   
But he was still John. And he would take _anything._ He'd love every single version of John Watson he could get, for it was better than no John Watson at all.  
   
While he was ripped apart in that cell in Serbia, Sherlock would remember every second, every phrase, every shared laugh, every scent, every single thing that reminded him of John, assuming it'd be the last scrape of light he'd get before darkness. Before death.  
   
And since he came back there were moments when the old John was _there._ Sherlock could feel him, behind each caress, behind each touch, behind each smile, behind each battered grimace, behind the carefully constructed masks, John was always there, living within the John he'd come back to.  
   
And how much he loved John Watson.  
   
In every universe. In any moment. In any time setting. Under any circumstances. He'd love John Watson.  
   
*******  
   
John didn't come back to his room that night.  
   
But he did so the next night, and the night after that, and every single night he remained at hospital.  
   
It was a slow recovery and Sherlock would get frustrated and desperate. He'd be livid and short-tempered, and John put up with him every single time. Sherlock silently wondered when John would finally snap and leave, but he never did.  
   
He checked on his wound every day. He'd sit silently as he read or wrote, and he'd bring Sherlock some of the files of cold cases that Lestrade had left them. Sherlock would solve them in a matter of seconds, John would look at him fondly. He'd force him to eat, he'd bring him homemade tea (sneaked it in so the nurses wouldn’t notice), he'd leave in the night after placing a kiss on his forehead and caressing his right cheekbone softly.  
   
Sherlock would wake up in the middle of the night with nightmares. He had them almost every night. John would look at him worriedly in the morning, seeing the increasing bags beneath his eyes and his restlessness, and one day he talked to Mycroft, arrangements were made, and John slept next to Sherlock.  
   
He never kissed him in the mouth. He ignored his morning erections. He simply stood by his side, bringing him warmth and calming his trembling body after his recurring nightmares.  
   
Eventually, the nightmares grew less and less recurrent. One night he didn't dream at all.  
   
He was getting better and he'd be discharged soon, he knew it. He was desperate to leave hospital, but he feared with every cell in his being that this would be the last he would see of John Watson.  
   
Lestrade's words came back to him often: _You're assuming lots of things, Sherlock._  
  
And wasn't he?  
   
Ever since their first meeting, Sherlock assumed that John was a fixed point. The constant within an infinitude of variables. Then John erased him from his mind.  
   
He couldn't lose John Watson. He wouldn't bear it.  
   
One afternoon, while John watched crap telly and Sherlock stood still on the bed, pretending he was thinking, he finally decided to speak up.  
   
"What are we?", he asked loudly, startling John, who jumped and muttered a _fuck!_ before he settled back on the chair.  
   
He blinked. "Come again?"  
   
"What are we?", he asked, not quite certain if he'd managed to keep the nervousness and anxiety out of his tone.  
   
John sat straight on the chair, he thought for a second before replying, "what do you want us to be?"  
   
"What do you want us to be, John?"  
   
"I asked you first."  
   
"I don't know." _A lie. A poor, poor lie A lie that's preferable to the truth. The truth is that I want to merge with you. I don't want us to be together, I want us to be one, John. And it terrifies me to think about it, about how I'd give it all to fuse every single cell of my body and every single neuron of my brain with all of you._ "What do you want, John?"  
   
"You", he replied without hesitation. He looked at Sherlock intently and seriously, his gaze fixed on Sherlock's eyes.  
   
Sherlock blinked. "What?"  
   
John dragged a deep breath and closed his eyes before starting again, "there are lots of ways in which one might want a person. I want you in all of them. And I'll take whatever you're willing to give me. I can't ask all of it from you, Sherlock, but ever since I laid eyes on you that -apparent- first day, at the café, I just _knew._ I couldn't understand how or why, it was a composition of things happening simultaneously: touch, sights, ears, I wanted you. I did, I know that much, and I still do. I won't pressure you, I know you've handled enough, I still don't know what you want from me, I try, I try _so hard_ to understand but I can never tell. I'm always wrong when it comes to you, but I'll take anything, Sherlock, _anything,_ as long as I'm able to see you again, to talk to you once more. That's what I want. You. In any way you want me."  
   
Sherlock remained speechless. Breathless. Air was so overrated. The world was turning, turning too hard, too fast, and John wanted him.  
   
John looked around. "I'm sorry", he said before standing up and aiming to walk away. "This was probably too much. I'm sorry."  
   
"You're not", Sherlock recovered his voice as the door was closing, wondering internally why was it that every time the door closed he felt forced to speak up.  
   
John opened the door and looked at him. "What?", he asked.  
   
"You're not. I mean, erm- you're never wrong when it comes to me. "  
   
John smiled softly and exhaled, feeling a small wave of relief.  
   
Sherlock cleared his throat, he didn't know what to say, nor how to say it, so he stole John's words. "There are lots of ways in which one might want a person. I love you. In every single way."  
  
John blinked at him. After the words seemed to have registered in his brain he took a  
step forward, then another, then another.  
   
He stopped in front of the bed.  
   
He didn't even have to lean. Sherlock had already pushed himself up on his elbows as much as he could, driven by an unspoken magnetism which pulled him towards John. He ached to feel John's lips on his again, just as he had dreamt of when he had been shot.  
   
And they were soft and hesitant and they were purely and entirely _John's._  
  
And this was the John he'd fallen in love with. With memories or without them, no one had managed to break every single wall he'd spent years building within hours. No one had seen through him, known him so deeply, so acutely, no one had accepted him despite the pain and the heartbreak. John. His John. In any universe, in any time setting, in any moment.  
   
John. His John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter and an epilogue to go. Thank you so, so much for reading, I hope you enjoy these final chapters! <3


	39. Chapter 39

"I am discharged today", Sherlock said as he internally scolded himself for being stupidly obvious, but he needed to know. Know if John was staying or leaving,  if everything was about to completely change or John would change his mind or something. In all reality, he couldn't think of anything else, he had zigzagged between an endless feeling of genuine happiness for their new relationship, _relationship, was that what they were supposed to be now?_ which probably defined the other extreme in which he spent half of the time: questioning about their new relationship (relationship?)  
   
He didn't know where to go from here: the hospital was one thing, but coming back to the place where everything happened, where everything had broken, where everything had been forgotten, might be too much.  
   
There was something deep, deep inside, something he never dared say aloud. Sherlock felt a terrible fear that one day he would wake up and John might be gone, or rather, that his memory would be gone. The anxiety never went away, it never faded, sometimes it mixed with an unreasonable anger towards John, which then turned into anger with himself for leaving, it was a full circle.  
   
But oh God, he loved John. He loved him so much.  
   
And call it stupidity or romanticism or...stupidity, but Sherlock thought, for flitting seconds, that that was enough.  
   
That had been enough to bring him to life, twice. It had been enough to drive them apart, it had been enough to drive them together, it had been enough to draw John back towards him, it would be enough to help them face whatever that got in their way.  
   
But that was wishful thinking. And stupidity.  
   
And Sherlock's biggest desire.  
   
"Yeah, I noticed", John replied, good-naturedly, as he stared at the tv.  
   
Sherlock cleared his throat. John hadn't realized yet where he was trying to steer the conversation to. "Erm- I was thinking, actually I was merely considering, for a moment, not that I've been spending a big amount of time on it, or, but-"  
   
John turned to look at him with a raised eyebrow. "Are you okay?", he asked half-jokingly, half-worriedly.  
   
"I would be if you'd allow me to talk".  
   
John smiled and nodded, "fair enough."  
   
"As I was saying, I considered the idea that- if you would call that an idea, it's more like an addition, you know, like complementing the idea per se and-"  
   
"Sherlock!"  
   
"Fine, fine. I want you to move in with me!", he almost said in exasperation.  
   
John stood still, his mouth half-opened. "Mo-move in?", he asked.  
   
Sherlock nodded.  
   
"Sherlock, open your eyes".  
   
He frowned at the statement, and...opened his eyes, hm, interesting, he hadn't even realized he had closed them.  
   
John was looking at him with a small smile in his face. "Yes."  
   
"Yes?"  
   
"Yes. Of course", John looked as if he wanted to say something else, but he kept quiet for a second, simply staring at Sherlock. Then he dragged a deep breath and carried on, "look, ever since the first moment I stepped on that flat, well the first moment I remember, it felt more like home than the dull flat I'd lived in. The skull, the eyes in the fridge, the mess, the dust...it was all oddly familiar. I simply can't explain, it's as if my brain had forgotten it all, but my body hadn't, and I felt drawn to it. Since the very beginning. Drawn to you."  
   
Then he looked away because that was what John Watson did and Sherlock stared at him speechless because it felt like he was talking to John Watson, the John Watson he'd left before it all went to hell, before he burned the last scope of light that they'd had.  
   
 _The hippocampus is the region of the brain which stores short-term memories. The hippocampus is also closely related to the sense of smell, which explains why we associate certain memories with certain smells, and how those smells stimulate a certain remembrance._  
  
 _Right now, staring at you being all John Watson, it smells like 221B. With its strange combination of earl grey tea, fire, chemicals, body parts and you._  
  
 _You._  
  
 _I associate all that we were, all that we are, with the smell of home. With the smell of you._  
  
Sherlock cleared his throat. "Hm, that's- that's good, that's fine. Good."  
   
"Yeah", John replied, before throwing him another of his long smiles. "You have got to stop", he told Sherlock.  
   
"Stop what?", Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.  
   
"It's physically painful watching you think so much. Just... Just enjoy this, us."  
   
"But what if-", Sherlock started without even thinking about it, but stopped as soon as John raised his hand to shut him up.  
   
"Sherlock, I think I made it quite clear: I want to be with you. That's it."  
   
"You don't know that, you don't know me enough."  
   
"No, you're right, I don't, perhaps not in the conventional way. And yet I do, _I do._ It's as if we had met in another life, another universe, another time setting, and we simply were meant to be, you and I. It feels like that, as if the universe is pulling us together, by simply sheer of magnetism, as if you were a compass and I a north."  
   
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You and your romanticism."  
   
John laughed, "it's true though", he stood up and walked towards his bed. "I would never give this up", he whispered as he leaned towards Sherlock. "I mean it. Never". He bent in and kissed him softly.  
   
Sherlock kissed him eagerly. It wasn't enough, none of this would ever be enough. He needed every single cell, every molecule of John Watson merged into every single one of his. He stopped to breathe for a moment, overwhelmed by the feeling, the memories, the love.  
   
He stared into John's eyes, they were dark and wide, and he was breathing hard already. "God, they better discharge you today or I'll sue them. I need you now, in 221B."  
   
Sherlock laughed and placed a kiss in John's cheek. He grimaced as he did so though, the wound in his abdomen felt like it was as capable of taking his breath away as John's kisses did.  
   
A look of guilt and pity flashed through John's face before he schooled his expression. Sherlock smiled at him, trying to calm him. "I need my doctor too, back in 221B."  
   
"I think that can be arranged", John replied with a smile.  
   
   
*******  
   
The first time Sherlock had tried hard drugs he was seventeen years old. He was lonely, he was bored, he was curious, call it what may. He tried them. And he loved them. Cocaine for the high, morphine for the low.  
   
He loved the feeling heroine brought. He loved how the world seemed less dull, more bearable, how his brain seemed to finally settle itself and the sad and ugly thoughts stopped and he just allowed himself to enjoy. But then it cooled down, and he needed more and he needed more and he needed more. And it wasn't even a need for chemical stimulation, it was a raw need to _stop_ his brain and finally find some pleasure and some calm amidst the pain and the loneliness. And so he took it again and again and he had it all under control until he didn't and he ended up in rehab.  
   
It never stopped, though. The feeling, the itch, the sensation, the need. Sherlock knew that no other chemical reaction would bring him the same feeling heroin did. And he craved for it, some times more than others, but he craved it nonetheless.  
   
It was nothing more than pure chemistry.  
   
But if there was something he'd learnt while he studied chemistry is that simple compounds can tear the world apart, or stitch it together.  
   
And yet.  
   
As he leaned against the wall and laughed, as he listened to the rumble of John Watson's laughter echoing through his ears and reaching his brain and calming the noise that never left, as he panted for air and felt tears prickling the corners of his eyes and as his whole body vibrated with the rumble of their joined laughter, there was quiet and there was noise, there was high and there was low.  
   
And it felt quite similar to what he'd only achieved with a syringe.  
   
It had been one month since he'd been discharged. Living together had proved to be just like the old times, except this time they shared a bed and Sherlock wasn't endlessly terrified of boundaries and miscommunication. Actually, it had been like falling back into routine, it took Sherlock a long time to feel his wound healing and John had taken care of him properly, making sure the wound was, in fact, healing. They kissed, not as much as Sherlock would like to, they bickered, there were body parts in the fridge again, Sherlock felt bored sometimes, John returned to work at the ER, and their lives fell back into place, or as much as it was possible.  
   
 It had been one month and John and him had just come back from their first case together since Lacuna. It really wasn't more than a five, six at most, but Sherlock was aching for it. He needed the rush of adrenaline running through his body and he needed John next to him. In the end they had ended up chasing a couple of burglars through streets and alleys, ducked the shot of a bullet and came back home safe and sound.  
   
And collapsed against the wall, cracking in laughter. Just like they had done years ago.  
   
   
 ** _To store and catalogue in Mind Palace: neurotransmitters activated._**

  
- _Norepinephrine, commonly known as adrenaline. Chemical formula: C8H11NO3. Rushes the heart and activates the brain._  
  
 _-Dopamine, commonly found in cocaine and nicotine. Chemical formula: C8H11NO2. Produces a sensation of pleasure._  
  
 _-Serotonin, commonly found in prescribed drugs. Chemical formula: C10H12N2O. Regulates the mood, the levels of happiness, stress and anxiety_.

_Compare results with the symptoms manifested after continuous drug use. Find out what it means to feel these three components kicking into the body at the same time. Is it a disease? Is it lethal? Further research needed in order to-_  
  
 _Oh._  
  
 _Norepinephrine. Dopamine. Serotonin._  
  
 _The three neurotransmitters associated with-_  
  
 _Falling in love._  
  
 _Oh no._  
  
 _Oh yes._  
  
   
It happened like that. Just that simple. Sherlock already knew that he loved John, that much was obvious, but that he was _in_ love? Well, knowing that changed things. Except it didn't. Except maybe it did. There was an element of eternity hidden within the concept of being in love. And Sherlock hated, absolutely hated considering that factor, but he couldn't help not to.  
   
He turned to find John with his head against the wall, as he tried to recover his breath. A rush of norepinephrine, dopamine and serotonin hit him once again. He smiled.  
   
A second later, his lips caught John's. Desperately, eagerly.  
   
John muttered something in surprise, but kissed him back, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's nape and tangling his fingers through Sherlock's curls. Their mouths opened to each other.  
   
Sherlock rummaged for John's coat and took it off immediately. John gasped and pushed himself further towards the wall, Sherlock pressing his body against John's, desperate to find the warmth and comfort that only John could provide.  
   
John took Sherlock's scarf and untied it, throwing it to the ground, followed by his Belstaff.  
   
As soon as they were free, John grabbed Sherlock's jacket by its lapels, refusing to let him go, holding onto it with his everything, as if his very own life depended on it. As his memories were hidden into the fabric of the suit jacket.  
   
"Sherlock...", he gasped as soon as Sherlock began to press open-mouthed kisses against his neck.  
   
"Hm?", Sherlock asked against his neck, his voice deep and hoarse and John involuntarily buckled his hips towards Sherlock's, driven by that seductive baritone, desperately seeking contact. Sherlock smiled as he tasted the feel of John's skin.  
   
"We- ah, we have to go upstairs, now." John warned.  
   
"Upstairs...dull...", Sherlock continued placing kisses in John's skin.  
   
John smiled. "Come on", he said as he broke them apart. Sherlock sighed as John did so, but took the opportunity to study John's face, which was tinted with an adorable blush of pink.  
   
They couldn't get upstairs fast enough, as soon as they did, their bodies sought one another unconsciously. John kicked the door to close it and focused all his attention on Sherlock. "You are brilliant", he whispered as he kissed Sherlock's jaw. "The way you examined the scene, the way you talked, the way you ran, God, I wanted to take you then and there."  
   
Sherlock felt his eyes drifting closed by the intensity of all of it. He gasped. "John...", he rumbled.  
   
"You. Brilliant you", was John's reply.  
   
"John-", Sherlock repeated breathlessly. "John, I want you."  
   
"You have me, all of me."  
   
"That's precisely what I want. All of you. All. Of. You", he said, for emphasis.  
   
John broke the kiss to stare into Sherlock's eyes. "What?", he asked.  
   
"I think I made myself quite clear", Sherlock said, managing to keep the air of superiority in his voice despite the panting.  
   
"Sherlock", John said, taking a deep breath. "No you weren't. I need you to be clear and tell me exactly what you want. I need to hear it."  
   
There is an element of eternity into taking that step as well. And Sherlock felt ready, more than ready, to be honest. He had imagined this exact moment over and over in his head, pondering all the variables and the possibilities. And he thought that was all he would ever get, and then he came back. And John was slowly coming back to him. Perhaps not in the way he'd always wanted, but John was there nonetheless.  
   
Sherlock bit his lip and leaned closer, stopping just above John's earlobe, his lips barely touching it as he whispered, "I want you, inside me. I need you."  
   
John's eyes closed and he lost balance slightly. He focused enough to ask, "are you certain?"  
   
Sherlock bit John's earlobe softly, "one hundred percent certain. Now."  
   
John didn't hear another word. He kissed Sherlock desperately, it was raw and messy and god it was perfect and brilliant and fantastic and Sherlock felt like he was about to collapse, but John's lips were there, holding him and tearing him and pulling him together and it was perfect.  
   
His hands were once again holding onto the lapels of his jacket, this time pushing towards their bedroom, the bedroom they had shared for the last month. They hadn't been...sexually engaged since Sherlock had been discharged from hospital, mostly because John felt that Sherlock's wound might give them trouble, but now Sherlock felt immune to pain and immortal.  
   
They closed the bedroom door behind them. John finally let go of the lapels and threw the jacket to the ground, but took his time unbuttoning Sherlock's purple shirt, as if he was slowly uncovering something incredibly valuable, something precious. Which was not the case at the moment, Sherlock thought.  
   
When he finally took off Sherlock's shirt his eyes fixed on the wound, and his hands roamed towards it softly. Sherlock simply stared at the movement of John's hand, a mix of arousal and pain and regret coming all at once. He dragged a deep breath. John looked up to meet his eyes and there was a whole conversation traveling through their gaze.  
   
John caressed the outskirts of the scar, touching incredibly softly, like only a skilled and careful doctor would do. The skin around was sensitive but it didn't hurt, for John knew how to apply the perfect amount of pressure. Sherlock closed his eyes and John stared fixedly at the wound.  
   
"I'm sorry", he whispered, almost inaudibly.  
   
Sherlock shook his head. "It was worth it."  
   
"No, it wasn't. I'm not worthy of that."  
   
"You are. You always will be."  
   
John bit his lip. His eyes glistened just a little, but Sherlock did not comment on it.  
   
"Kiss me", Sherlock asked.  
   
John could only comply.  
   
He did so, pouring his everything into the kiss, as if he was somehow making it up for all the things Sherlock went through, as if his mere existence, as if his mere presence was not enough, more than enough.  
   
Sherlock unbuttoned John's shirt, slowly, as if it was the first time he did it. It wasn't, not with John, but there was something new in this, not only the element of eternity, but the element of commitment hidden within it, without any barriers. The last time they had had sex they had tumbled to the ground as John cried against Sherlock's chest for all the things they'd lost, the time before that John didn't even know what he'd lost. Now there were no enemies standing in the way, no secrets hidden, just them. For the first time since the pool, it was just the two of them.  
   
They tumbled on the bed as they reached for each other's zippers, their hands crashing and standing in their way, they laughed as they kissed but finally managed to pull them down. Sherlock kissed John's chest, as much as he could reach without hurting his healing wound. John grabbed his hands and joined them together, their fingers intertwined and he smiled at Sherlock.  
   
Sherlock placed a kiss on John's knuckles before letting go, focusing his attention on getting John out of his pants. John did the same, slowly, feeling like they had all the time and all the possibilities and uncertainties it brought with it ahead of them. And so they kissed once again, because they could.  
   
John pulled Sherlock's pants down and they were both finally naked. John stepped back for a moment and simply looked at him, without even blinking. Sherlock swallowed, feeling self-conscious all of a sudden, he realized then that John had never seen him naked, not like this before. The scars, the bullet, the track marks, they were all there, in plain sight. Sherlock  was exposing his most intimate side to John Watson, and he felt incredibly grateful to be able to do so.  
   
John stood up and sat right behind Sherlock. Then he reached out and traced the path of the scars in his back, softly, gently. Sherlock dragged a deep breath and leaned into the touch. John replaced his fingers with his lips and kissed the skin that had stitched together after the whips, a touch that could only be compared with that of a feather. There was so much love behind John's touch.  
   
Sherlock was already hard, but inexplicably so, as John kissed the scars he got much harder, and he needed John with him, looking at him and inside him. He turned around and looked at John, cupping his face with his hands before leaning in for another lust-filled kiss.  
   
John was hard too, and so Sherlock's hand skimmed down and stopped right at the tip of his cock, John moaned into the kiss and pushed into the touch, Sherlock caressed the tip and slowly, slowly pulled down the foreskin. John shrieked and Sherlock smiled.  
   
"Shut- up. It's been- too long and ah, I missed you- desperately", John panted between kisses.  
   
Sherlock laughed but kept kissing him eagerly. John's hand found Sherlock's cock and started pulling down as well, and their kisses turned frantic and messy and they couldn't care less. "John...", Sherlock gasped.  
   
John broke the kiss and bent down so he could take Sherlock in his mouth, and as soon as he did, Sherlock moaned. John worked him out slowly, enjoying the feel of his skin mixed with the warmth and the rumble of Sherlock's voice against his ear. Sherlock's hand didn't stop.  
   
If they kept on like this, they wouldn't last long.  
   
Reluctantly, John broke apart and opened the drawer of the table next to Sherlock's bed, taking out a bottle of lube and a condom.  
   
Sherlock was hit by the reality that _this_ was happening.  
   
It was actually happening.  
   
John Watson. With him. After everything they'd been through, _finally._  
  
"Have you ever done this before?", John asked softly.  
   
Sherlock shook his head, his eyes closed, overwhelmed by the greatness of all of it.  
   
John kissed him again. "It's okay. It will hurt just a bit, if you want me to stop tell me and I will", he said as he poured some lube in his hand. His voice was gentle and he sounded completely in control, and Sherlock wondered how he managed to sound so calm, when Sherlock felt like his whole brain was about to explode into a zillion supernovas.  
   
As he kissed him, he traced little circles around his hole before tucking his finger inside, slowly. Sherlock gasped. It felt...odd, certainly.  
   
John kissed him more eagerly, and started moving his finger in and out. A moment later he tucked in another and Sherlock moaned at the combination of pain and pleasure, perhaps more pain than pleasure at the moment, but it didn't matter. "Shh", John whispered against his ear, "it's okay, I got you love."  
   
Sherlock's pain numbed as soon as he heard those four letters. He stood speechless, unable to say anything else. His brain unfocused on the intruders inside his body and placed its attention on storing the way John had just said that word deep into his mind palace. He would keep that memory locked for the rest of his life.  
   
There was certainly an element of eternity in this moment.  
   
He barely realized when the third finger came in. He felt uncomfortable as John moved his fingers as if they were scissors. Then it all went blank.  
   
Supernovas and stars and whole galaxies, God, Sherlock was capable of creating solar systems and black holes at this very moment.  
   
John had reached his prostate.  
   
He came back to reality a second later, already feeling himself growing addicted to that sensation. Heroin had never felt like this. Never.  
   
John smiled as he stared into Sherlock's face. "Alright?", he asked.  
   
"Inside. Now." Sherlock replied.  
   
John laughed and nodded. Sherlock opened his eyes and stared at John. They simply looked at each other silently, none of them even daring to move.  
   
A thousand words without noise went through their eyes. There was an element of eternity behind them. Sherlock nodded, John placed the condom in his cock and slowly went in.  
   
Sherlock dragged a deep breath and his eyes squeezed shut at the odd sensation. He felt a soft tug in his curls and opened his eyes to find John looking at him fixedly. "Okay?", he asked.  
   
Sherlock nodded and pulled himself up as much as his wound allowed him to, and their lips met once again.  
   
And John started moving.  
   
And the world around him collapsed. Or built itself together. He couldn't tell.  
   
With every move, John touched Sherlock's prostate and Sherlock was melting into John's body. He wrapped his legs around John's torso and began moving out of sheer instinct and need, and he'd never felt anything remotely similar to this before.  
   
They moved faster, driven by despair. Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at John, who was lost in pleasure, in a way he had never seen him before. And realization hit Sherlock, for the hundredth time in that day: John was allowing him in just as much as Sherlock was doing. With every thrust, with every movement, with every word, with every expression, with every moan, John was letting Sherlock in, showing him a deeply intimate part of himself.  
   
And oh god, he would give everything to be allowed into the deepest corners of John's body and mind for the rest of his life.  
   
They were both close, their thrusting turning frantic and erratic and messy and incredibly perfect. "Yes. Yes, Sherlock", John whispered without even realizing he was. "Come for me, love."  
   
That did it.  
   
What else possibly could?  
   
Sherlock felt as if a Big Bang had crashed through inside his body.  
  
 _Oxytocin. Neuropeptide. Better known as the 'love hormone', it is said to be the one that bounds people together._  
  
 _I'm releasing it and so are you. And I want to merge into it and bound us together for eternity._  
  
He opened his eyes as soon as his orgasm dissipated to find that John had just reached that point, and it was the most spectacular sight he'd ever seen. Locked and sealed, directly into his mind palace, along with the feeling of John pulsing against his skin.  
   
John collapsed against him, there was no other noise but that of their combined breathing and the touch of skin and skin.  
   
"I love you", John panted against Sherlock's abdomen.  
   
Serotonin, dopamine, norepinephrine, oxytocin.  
   
And a feeling he would never put into words. Words never would be enough.  
   
But there was an element of eternity behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chapter (it was about time, wasn't it?). See you around for the final chapter. Lots of love to you all :3


	40. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is it, the final chapter. I want to thank each and every single one of you for reading, commenting and sending your kudos, your support kept me going on despite all the ugly things we had to go through as a fandom, and despite the angst and the sadness. I hope you enjoy this epilogue and I hope you've enjoyed this ride. Your comments made my days and even though I know maybe this was too angsty, I hope in the end it was worth it, because you guys deserve all the beautiful and wonderful things in the world. Thank you and thank you. Enjoy!
> 
> P.S. you can always find me on my [tumblr](http://johnandsherlocks.tumblr.com) x

   
**The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson**  
   
   
**6th January**  
   
_**On endings and beginnings**_  
   
   
Hello, I'm back. Well, sort of. You'll understand later.  
   
Six months ago I woke up one morning and thought I was just hungover, tried to ignore the throbbing in my head and wondered why I didn't remember what had happened the night before, but well, hungover could explain it. Except I didn't remember being hungover in the first place.  
   
I didn't remember either that I had deleted half of my life.  
   
That day I met a man, his name was Sherlock Holmes. The name sounded oddly familiar, and he knew my name too, which was odd, but I thought I would remember someone like Sherlock Holmes.  
   
I never thought I would erase someone like Sherlock Holmes.  
   
But I did. Don't ask me to explain why I did it, don't ask me to explain what motivated me to do it, I don't know, and I will never figure it out. All I know is that Sherlock was dead and I wanted him gone from my mind, and so I did. I erased him and every single memory we had written together, every single memory stored in this old blog, all of it. Half of my life gone.  
   
And as you have probably heard from the news and the papers and literally everywhere in every corner of the world, Sherlock Holmes is alive, Sherlock Holmes came back and I didn't have the slightest idea of who Sherlock Holmes was, didn't know who I had been for Sherlock Holmes, either.  
   
But a part of me knew, somehow, because I couldn't get away. I couldn't. I was hooked, from the very first moment, he was like a drug. Sherlock knew of course, he knew I had erased him and he tried to leave, to put his distance and walk away because he thought that was what I wanted, but truth was I thought I'd never really _lived_ until I met him. Well, apparently I _had_ lived but I had erased what I had lived from my mind. And we fell back to old habits, I guess. Solving crimes and the such, Holmes and Watson.  
   
There isn't a single day in my life when I don't regret doing what I did. Sherlock's blamed himself over and over for it, but in the end it was my choice, and I know I didn't know, I know I should have known that he was alive, and I suppose I lost the hope I had placed in him and in the end, even I failed him.  
   
But I can't stay in the past, I can't mourn it forever. Sometimes I dream about certain things we lived together but the memories are too blurry. Sherlock tells me some of the stories, but he's not a very good storyteller, he only remembers the gory details or the clues that made him find out that the single woman with the three dogs was the one who killed her neighbor, so in the end it's not very enlightening. But listening to our stories brings me back to life, and even though it hurts and it makes me terribly angry, it also heals me. Heals us.  
   
I can't imagine a life without action, murders, crime and mayhem, but most of all I simply _can't_ imagine a life without Sherlock Holmes in it, and I suppose that's what pushed me to make the choice I made, but I hope I can make it up to him. If he allows me, I'll chronicle our stories in the depths of this blog, so he reminds me of the past I've lost, while I remind him of the future ahead of us. I won't forget a single detail, I will be there, always.  
   
Because I know this won't be easy. None of it. He died. I forgot him. He came back. I didn't know who he was. I hated him. I forgave him. It's never been easy for us, but I'll take anything, because I had a glimpse of a life without Sherlock Holmes, and I prefer any scrape of him I can get.  
   
 It's been only six months since he came back and he's done so many things for me that a book would never be enough to cover it, and I owe him what I am now, who I am now, because he's saved me. And so, if I believe all the wondrous, crazy, hilarious stories I've been told, I know for sure that Sherlock Holmes has saved my life too many times.  
   
I'd like to believe I saved him. And if I haven't, I'd like to believe that I will save him someday, from others, from me or from himself, I just hope I can do for him what he's done for me. He deserves so much, certainly much more than coming back to find that the one person you truly cared about knows nothing about you and what you were anymore. I want to return the favour. I want to be the person he deserves.  
   
I'm sorry for deleting this blog. I'm sorry you all lost both your favorite detective and the doctor who was always there for him, but I hope I can make it up to you as well. This blog will shelter our stories and our memories, our future and our past. It will be an insight of the life of a madman and a man who's forgotten too much, but most of all, it will be the record of our time together.  
   
It wasn't his fault. I don't want him to anchor himself on the past either. I don't blame him, how could I?  
   
Now, more than ever, and unfailingly, unfaltering, I believe in Sherlock Holmes.  
   
I can only hope he believes in John Watson.  
   
And God, I can only hope that is enough for both of us.  
   
   
   
*******  
   
Sherlock had forgotten he had notifications for John Watson's blog. What was the point in remembering it anyway?  
   
So when he came back from the crime scene, as he sat in the cab that would take him to Baker Street, as he looked at the notification from his phone, he felt all the air leave his lungs.  
   
It had to be a mistake from the app, or the RSS feed, there was something wrong because the personal blog of John H. Watson no longer existed.  
   
He opened the link.  
   
And the header of the personal blog of John H. Watson greeted him.  
   
And the date of the post was today.  
   
_On Endings and Beginnings,_ it started.  
   
Sherlock read it all, his mouth half opened.  
   
He looked at every single word carefully, stared at it fixedly, constantly wondering whether he had lost his mind and had started hallucinating or something of the sorts.  
   
It took him around ten minutes.  
   
There's this unusual sensation an average person feels when said person finishes reading a particularly fascinating book, there's a certain emptiness to it, filled with a sadness that it's over and a need for more, but there's also a sense of completion, as if the last sentence and the first sentence came together, thus closing the circle.  
   
The first sentence was Afghanistan or Iraq, the last sentence was Oh God I can only hope that is enough for both of us.  
   
Sherlock felt something akin to that. There was an emptiness to it, for all the memories scattered, flying around, turned into ashes, remembered only by those who read the blog, but not remembered by the man who wrote them all, and in that there was a sense of nostalgia, a deep feeling settling in his stomach, a painful reminder that expectations never matched reality.  
   
But beyond the emptiness and the feeling of loss and the raw nostalgia, there was an absorbing feeling of...encompassing. As if with every single word, with every phrase and with every expression, John gave a little bit of Sherlock's heart back, a little bit of his life back, as if bit by bit they were rebuilding whatever was shattered.  
   
And that was a kind of feeling Sherlock didn't even know how to express. It was an unusual kind of happiness and peace, a kind of happiness that is not expressed with a smile, but with a feeling deep inside that is as if all your organs had found a balance, as if the world was slightly more bearable and the sky slightly more beautiful. It was a kind of happiness that was far too big and too massive to embrace with a simple smile.  
   
It was a kind of happiness that could only last an eternity.  
   
A kind of peace that could only mean forever.  
   
He blinked and found the driver looking at him with a weird expression on his face. Right, he was standing in front of Baker Street. He handed the cabbie the money and walked into the flat, desperately wishing that John was there to receive him with a smile and a kiss. But John had a nightly shift at the clinic, which was the reason why he'd left the crime scene early and-  
   
He stopped dead.  
   
"Hi", he found a hesitant and slightly anxious voice.  
   
Sherlock looked around. The whole place was filled with candles and the smell of food was everywhere and it was perfect.  
   
"Happy Birthday", was all John said as he stood in front of Sherlock, a smile in his face.  
   
Sherlock simply looked at him, unable to mutter another single word. Words were not enough.  
   
And then John's lips were on his and he felt the little air he had left in him leaving his lungs.  
   
He recovered it just as they broke apart.  
   
"I had never told you-", he started.  
   
"That doesn't mean I didn't know", John replied.  
   
Sherlock cleared his throat and pulled out his mobile, showing the website to John.  
   
"You read it?", he asked, scratching the back of his neck.  
   
Sherlock nodded.  
   
"Surprise! That was supposed to be my surprise", he said.  
   
Sherlock smiled. "How did you-"  
   
"I had talked to Lestrade and Molly, they told me all about it and helped me find the exact design.", he said with a shrug.  
   
Sherlock pulled him into a hug. "I never thought I would actually miss that blog, but as soon as I saw it again it was-", he fell silent. It was, it was, it was-  
   
"-it was as if nothing had changed", John said what Sherlock was not capable of.  
   
Sherlock nodded slowly. It sounded stupid, actually, but Sherlock longed to grasp onto the past, because it now was his task to never let it go, because there were so many stories to tell John, and he needed to make sure there was something keeping him tied to what John had let go.  
   
As John had so eloquently put it, their past is on his hands, their future in John's.  
   
And he would guard the past as a treasure.  
   
He closed his eyes and was brought back to that first post, all those years ago.  
   
_It's mad. I think he might be mad. He was certainly arrogant and really quite rude and he looks about 12 and he's clearly a bit public school and, yes, I definitely think he might be mad but he was also strangely likeable. He was charming. It really was all just a bit strange._  
  
Sherlock nodded.  
   
John looked pained for a moment, but then the smile was back on place. "I know, I know. That was exactly what I had planned. And I plan on keeping it, as a wink to the past, but also as a promise to the present."  
  
_Me and the madman. Me and Sherlock Holmes._  
  
"It was- perfect. Well, not perfect per se, with those grammatical mistakes and-"  
   
John rolled his eyes.  
   
"But it was- it was everything I could have possibly ever wanted."  
   
And it was true. In some unusual and extremely rare cases, expectations matched reality.  
  
"I love you."  
   
John's eyes watered just a little bit. There was a sense of nostalgia and a sense of completeness within them.  
   
"I love you too. Happy Birthday, Sherlock Holmes."

 

 


End file.
